Rupert stands just inside the front door, looking dazed, when Paul comes down the stairs. ‘Morning Rupert. How are you?’ Paul says, but gets no reply. He’s come home to pay rent. This is usually done by slipping an envelope under the door of 1A at Copenhagen Street, the Ofiss. But today he’s racing early, so he’s up and about even though it’s only half past five. He’s been spending less and less time under the eaves and more and more time with Miriam in the room at Hampstead. Between that, racing and running things across the city for Mr Morton he’s barely been in the house for weeks. September has become October and Paul feels like he is married to one of his woollen jumpers.
Rupert looks surprised to see him, ‘Fine, just fine. I’m a little busy right now, could you come back in a while?’
‘I’m off to Wood Green, big race weekend coming up. I’m just here to pick up some things, and pay rent. I was wondering, have you seen Silas lately? I’ve got some money for him. Would like to pay off this bike before it breaks you know.’
Rupert is standing in the corridor, hasn’t opened the office door yet. There are two big sacks leaning against the banister. Rupert moves as to pick them up, then seems to change his mind.
‘Need a hand with those?’ Paul asks.
‘No, no.’
‘Should I just put the rent under the door then?’
‘Give it here.’ Without looking inside the envelope, something that surprises Paul, Rupert folds it over in a hurry and stuffs it into his inner pocket. But he doesn’t move either to unlock the office or for the sacks. The front door opens and the two bakers walk in. David happy, Henry with black rings around his eyes. Each carrying another sack like the ones at Rupert’s feet on their shoulders, aprons flapping around their legs like hungry lapdogs. Henry shoots Rupert a questioning look, and Rupert drags a hand across his face. He looks up the stairs, at the bags. At Paul, then at Henry, and nods. David stands, sack still on his shoulder, with his forehead leaning against the wall, arms hanging by his sides, eyes closed.
‘Come on then Paul. You’ve got time before you go I’m sure,’ Rupert says to Paul. ‘See if you can lift those two,’ he continues with a smirk. Straining, Paul manages and the four of them walk up the stairs to the door of 2C. Rupert gets a key out and Paul notices a new clasp and a padlock.
‘Someone has been fiddling with the door. Stolen the knob. Some people.’
‘Who would do that?’ asks Henry.
‘Probably that man Sorensen upstairs,’ says Rupert getting the lock open.
‘So Paul, this is something you don’t see every day.’ He pushes the door open and invites Paul to come and have a look. Paul acts surprised to see the black void. Even plays along when Rupert jokingly pushes him a little in the back.
‘When they redug some of the sewage system they came too close to the surface or something under this house. The floor under one of the flats collapsed into the underground. Luckily no one was in. With Silas and Mr Morton’s connections in the insurance world we were able to get a decent amount of money to compensate for the damage.’
Paul can see there are still pictures hanging up on the wall on the opposite side of the door, and the curtains are still drawn.
‘And what are we doing with the bags? Is it flour?’ asks Paul.
David closes his eyes, Henry looks at his feet. Rupert looks at Paul as if he’s expecting him to say something more, but then he nods and smiles.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s flour. Isn’t that right Henry?’
Henry nods but doesn’t open his eyes.
‘We’ve got a deal with their boss. We pour the leftovers, or the flour that’s gone off, down this shaft and it disappears. Either into the ground or into the sewage system. Also helps with the smell.’
‘Paul, let the boys rest, they’ve had a hard night,’ Rupert says. ‘You wouldn’t mind pouring this stuff down there would you? I’ve got some things to discuss with them in the office. Might even pour them a drink, talk a little about the baking they did last night,’ the last comment directed straight at David.
‘I’m in a hurry Rupert,’ Paul says.
‘Consider it an order from Mr Morton.’
‘Sure, fine.’ Paul says. ‘Then I’m off. Tell Silas I’m looking for him, or he can come out to Wood Green if he wants to.’
‘Not a problem Paul,’ Rupert says, letting go of the doorframe. ‘I’ve left the key in the padlock. Just lock and slide the key under my door when you’re done. Good man.’
The three men leave. Rupert shaking his head, Henry stumbling down the stairs, David whistling. Paul hears clinking glasses and someone opening a bottle of beer even before the office door is closed. Then someone kicks it shut and Henry’s voice starts rumbling, indecipherable.
Paul carries the first sack over, rips it open with the skeleton key he gets out of the lock and pours the flour into the darkness. He doesn’t know much about flour but this stings his eyes and smells sharp. He reasons that’s because it’s gone off, or maybe it’s infested with mealworm? Once he’s done with the fourth round he wonders where to put the empty sacks but if the shaft is big enough to swallow pounds and pounds of flour surely the hessian bags can go down too. He bunches the first three sacks up and drops them over the threshold. Then, picking up the fourth, he notices writing on the side of it. It says ‘NaOH – Sodium Hydroxide – Not for domestic use – Handle with care.’
Is that really for baking? he wonders. Or is it baking powder, rising agent, that kind of thing? As his nose prickles and his eyes sting he decides to throw the last bag into the gap and close the door. Coughing his way down the stairs he slips the key under the door.
‘That’s you done then?’ Rupert shouts from inside, not opening.
‘Yes. I put the bags down the shaft too. Hope that was the right thing to do?’
‘That’s fine. Run along now.’
Paul can hear David and it sounds like he’s laughing, but he could also be crying. It’s something right between: a hacking hysterical noise.
Paul runs upstairs and stuffs his meagre possessions into a haversack. A couple of medals, a shirt, the spare cycling top he can never use as it has the wrong number on the back of it, two books, both presents from Miriam that he’s not read but pretends he has at least started. Some clothes for life, some for cycling. A hat and a coat. A few bits and bobs for the bike, a picture of Glen Coe he found in a magazine, a meerschaum pipe Emrys gave him once after winning a race, the wager from Paul was his old handlebars, now sold back to Jack for sentimental value. It’s not much, but it’s all his. On his way down he passes the office again. A voice shrieks from behind the door. Not a word, not a command – a wounded seagull’s death wish.
Paul leaves for the track, hoping to see Silas there as he sometimes does. The house is getting to be too much for him. Maybe Silas owns other houses where Paul can rent a room. Or maybe it’s time they went their separate ways. That’s what Paul wants to discuss. He’s been saving and there might just be enough, providing that he wins the remaining races of the month, to pay off the bike and the rent he still owes along with whatever other costs Silas will surely tell him have been incurred. Coughing up phlegm he cycles over to Wood Green.