Читать книгу Ravenfall - Narrelle M Harris - Страница 6

‘It’s not just a bedsit,’ said the young man, all flash suit and posh aftershave, to the gangly, windswept fellow at his side, ‘More bedsit- and-a-half, a kitchenette to go with the bedroom, and a cupboard for some storage space, which you said you were after.’

Gabriel Dare peered at the outside of the plain block of flats. Ivy Gardens. Without any ivy, or indeed, any garden. Two storeys of scuffed red bricks, small windows and peeling paint, encompassed by a low brick wall. It didn’t look much. The estate agent’s website pictures of the room-and-a-half for rent were only a little better; the tiny space had been recently repainted, at least. The pantry at the parental home was larger, but then3303 – Gabriel didn’t need much space, and he’d lived in places far less salubrious than his father’s house for many years. Even a tiny room in this unadorned building was better than what he’d had some months. (A couch in a student flophouse; an alcove out of the rain some nights; three weeks under a bridge one year. Something with both a door and a roof was a positive luxury.)

Gabriel nodded absently as the estate agent rattled on about value for the pound and proximity to buses and the Tube, but he was taking in the setting. A narrow path led down the side of the block to an area containing a communal washing line, bins and a strip of lawn, according to the online photos. That would suit his needs if he had private callers, or needed to get out by means other than the front door.

‘The neighbours are pretty quiet,’ the estate agent was saying as a heavy-set man with a suitcase and a scowl pushed past them towards the street.

‘Get fucked!’

Behind him, a pale man with brown hair glared at the other’s retreating back. ‘You owe for electricity and groceries, you bast–’

‘I didn’t eat the bloody biscuits!’

‘Who else w–’

‘And why shouldn’t I, anyway? You’d never eat them. You don’t eat. You hardly sleep. You’re a fucking nutter. Spend another night in your spare room, I might wake up with a fork in my kidney while you sip on a bleeding Chianti.’

The pale man glowered but made no reply. He opted instead to concentrate on getting his fists to uncurl. He glared at the estate agent and Gabriel.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Er… problem, Mr Sharpe?’ asked the agent nervously.

‘Christ no,’ replied Sharpe with weary humour, ‘What on earth makes you think that?’

‘Er…’

Gabriel scrutinised this fellow, Sharpe. He’d seen him from a distance before, near the Lester Avenue clinic, a few handy streets away. He hadn’t paid much attention. A distinct mistake: he was certainly worth a closer inspection. Average height, but with broad shoulders and a compact, solid musculature of the type Gabriel had always found appealing, being such a contrast to his own lanky physique. Strong arms (Gabriel liked arms a lot, and hands, and… stop that now) and sturdy legs braced on the footpath, as though ready for an imminent call to action, his dark jeans clinging in all the right places. Light brown hair in a neat militarily short cut, clean-shaven, and sapphire blue eyes of a peculiar intensity. Very pale from his upper arms to his elbows, though his hands, forearms and face bore the traces of a faded tan. From his stance and body type, Gabriel suspected that Mr Sharpe had a good arse on him. He tried not to think about that. He liked a good arse on a man, and he’d made himself a very sincere promise not to let such things sway his judgement any more.

‘How much?’ asked Gabriel brightly.

God, he hadn’t even seen the arse in question and his mouth was getting ahead of his resolutions. Story of his life.

Both estate agent and Sharpe blinked at the non sequitur.

‘For the vacated room?’ Gabriel persisted with the cheerfulness, ‘How much?’

‘I–’

‘And how much space?’

‘Two bedrooms, kitchen, living room. One bathroom,’ said Sharpe, curious but wary. ‘On the top floor.’

‘Any room for storage?’

Sharpe regarded Gabriel quizzically, but with the beginnings of a smile. ‘The cupboard under the stairs to the attic. I don’t have much in it. Shared space in the downstairs laundry. The unexpectedly unoccupied bedroom is the larger of the two, faces the back. It’s basic, but it’s furnished. Some linens, though you might want to bring your own. Baxter used to eat in bed, the grubby reprobate.’

Gabriel found the faint lilt of a Scots accent deeply appealing, however fine or not the man’s arse turned out to be. ‘You own the flat?’

‘Me and the bank, though without a lodger it’ll be the bank’s by the end of the year. Want to see the room? Two hundred quid a week. You pay half the utilities, and for your own groceries.’

‘Yes, please.’ That was nearly a hundred quid less than the poky bedsit he was supposed to be seeing. Helene insisted he had to move from that nasty basement room in Bexley, so full of damp and mould it might as well be part of the Shuttle River, but the costs of moving were making him edgy. ‘Cleaning roster and responsible for our own cooking?’

‘Naturally. Aren’t you worried I’m a nutjob cannibal that’s going to eat your kidneys one bright morning when I’ve had it to the back teeth with my dead end office job?’

Gabriel had once met a man who might have been capable of such a thing. Sharpe was nothing like him. ‘Nope. You’re a doctor at the community health centre on Lester Avenue. I’ve seen you there, anyway. Ex-army, I heard.’

Sharpe grimaced, his fingers automatically going to the lines of a tattoo visible under the sleeve of his khaki T-shirt: red flowers and the tail end of a caduceus.

‘Combat Medical Technician; infantry,’ said Sharpe. When Gabriel showed surprise, he added, ‘At the time, being at the pointy end seemed a better use of my medical degree.’

‘A bit quieter around here, I’m guessing.’

‘Most days. I’m only at the clinic part time. None of that means I’m not planning to eat your kidneys. According to Baxter.’ He indicated the general direction of the recent ex-lodger.

‘My reflexes are top drawer, so you’re welcome to try,’ said Gabriel, bouncing on his toes to demonstrate his agility, ‘And anyway, aren’t you worried I’m a drifter looking for lonely victims to seduce and then murder for their army pension?’

Sharpe laughed, surprised and genuinely amused, which delighted Gabriel. Most people were shocked at his gallows humour. And Sharpe had a fantastic laugh, uninhibited, making him appear younger.

‘Well, as you say,’ said Sharpe, ‘I have quality reflexes and you’re welcome to try. Baxter’s already let you in on my worst habits. Still want to see?’

‘Sure. Your habits sound no worse than mine.’

‘You intrigue me, Mr…?’

‘Gabriel Dare.’ He said it with a hint of defiance. He was used to how people reacted to a glamorous-sounding name that in no way reflected his actual life.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Fine then, Mr Gabriel Dare. If you like the room, it’s yours. I’m James Sharpe.’

Gabriel tried not to be too swayed by the way that soft accent rendered his name so pleasing to the ear. He turned to the scandalised and uncomfortable estate agent. ‘Thanks for bringing me to see the bedsit. I’ll sort out the rest from here.’ He shook the man’s hand and strode through the gate in the low wall towards his new flatmate.

Gabriel approved of the flat and the offered room. Spacious, with convenient shelves in which to store his art supplies, and enough clear floor to work by the window, if Helene couldn’t find him studio space somewhere else.

The window overlooked the narrow back garden. A convenient trellis ran beside it, holding up an unhealthy ivy vine; evidence that perhaps there had once been a garden. Gabriel leaned out of the window to check the trellis’s strength. It wasn’t great, but he could fix it later. The door to the ground-level laundry was immediately below, and that could be useful too.

‘I experiment sometimes with pigments and finishes,’ said Gabriel, figuring a full confession now would save being tossed out later, which had happened before, ‘But I’ll do that in my room rather than the common areas. I’m a trained chemist, so it’s unlikely I’ll cause any real explosions.’

Sharpe raised an eyebrow. ‘Real explosions?’

Gabriel’s mouth pursed because once more he’d run off at the mouth, being frank rather than politic, and he’d blown it. Damn.

But Dr Sharpe was grinning at him, as if the idea that he could get blown up in a pigment experiment was divertingly funny.

‘I did say it was unlikely,’ Gabriel said cautiously.

‘You can use the kitchen table if you like, as long as you clean up the aftermath,’ Sharpe said good-humouredly. ‘Any other potential hazards to life and limb I should know about?’

‘I may have guests at odd hours,’ confessed Gabriel, ‘I’ll keep it to a minimum. I expect I’ll see most of them in the garden.’

‘Day or night?’

‘It could be any time. Is that a problem?’

‘Give me a bit of warning if you can.’

‘If it’s a problem–’

‘No, no, it’s not.’ Sharpe pursed his lips. ‘I like to know when new people are around. I’m… Look. I should be frank, if you’re going to live here. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s okay, except when it’s not. Hence the insomnia Baxter was talking about, and… other things. I can get a wee bit fractious if there are unexpected visitors at strange hours.’

Sharpe looked unhappy, and Gabriel found he didn’t like Sharpe looking unhappy. The poor bastard seemed so withdrawn. He’d met men like that before, not all of them veterans. They all held themselves like Dr Sharpe, though. Wary and reserved and so lonely.

‘I knew an army veteran once,’ he offered suddenly, ‘Used to get the heeby jeebies at the smell of oranges, and he couldn’t ever tell me why. Nice guy, though. He watched out for people.’

A little furrow of confusion made a wrinkle between Sharpe’s eyebrows.

‘All I mean is – I’ll be mindful and let you know when I have callers if I can, or as soon as they arrive. They can’t always let me know in advance. If that’ll help.’

‘Cheers, yeah.’ Sharpe, satisfied, changed the subject. ‘Well, you know I’m a GP. What do you do for a crust? You mentioned pigments.’

‘I’m an artist, but I work part-time at an art supplies factory for regular dosh. I’m a qualified chemist.’

‘Hence the pigment experiments?’

‘Hence, though mostly they’re for fun. If they’ll be a problem…’

‘No, that’s fine. Surprisingly, loud bangs aren’t my issue. Just unexpected midnight visitors, and only sometimes then.’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘Your visitors – are they… buyers… or…?’

‘I’m not a drug dealer, Dr Sharpe. Or a user. I make a living with pigment chemistry and my art. My work’s at the Dupre Gallery on Sutton Street, if you want proof.’

‘No, that’s all good. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘That’s fine. Not a stupid question, under the circumstances. You don’t know me. I could be a coke fiend.’

‘No, I could tell you’re not a user.’ Gabriel raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘I’m a doctor,’ said Sharpe, ‘I know what to watch for.’

Gabriel wasn’t inclined to take that at face value but it wasn’t, for the moment, important. ‘My visitors seek my help on other matters.’

‘Oh-ho, I was right. You are intriguing. Care to tell me what kind of help and on what kind of matters?’

‘If I don’t care to, is the deal off?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Hell, no. I won’t try to solve your mysteries if you leave mine alone too.’

‘Unlike the late Baxter?’

‘I wouldn’t call him late. He was still breathing, wasn’t he?’

‘And still had both kidneys, as far as I could tell.’

Sharpe grinned again. ‘Aye, he did. Surgery’s not my thing.’ The grin faltered and Sharpe retreated to the kitchen to flick on the kettle by the sink. ‘Tea?’

Gabriel watched the man’s back, the sudden hunching of the shoulders and wariness of stance. Maybe working patime at a community clinic was a sore point. Not surprising, if he’d been invalided out of the army on the grounds of PTSD. Sharpe didn’t show signs of permanent physical injury, like some of the people Gabriel knew from the streets. Trimboll, for instance, who limped badly and got sick at the smell of oranges and cried himself to sleep on hot nights, and had got himself stabbed one night protecting an old bloke from a pair of drunk arseholes.

‘I thought I’d get my things,’ was all he said, ‘Move in today. That is, if we have a deal.’

‘Oh. Right. Good. Well.’ Sharpe turned back to him, a set of keys in his hand. He dropped them into Gabriel’s outstretched palm. ‘Welcome to Flat Four, Ivy Gardens, Mr Dare.’

‘Call me Gabriel.’

‘Call me James.’

And that was that.