THE HOUSE IN Iverdale Road absorbed as much heat from the sun as a matchwood shack – only Kirsty’s basement stayed tepid. It was as if the spec builders of the 1900s had skimped on a layer of bricks – or perhaps it was the design that was at fault; the room that fitted directly under the slate roof without an intervening attic. Even with all the windows open a draught was hard to come by. What came through the gaps was noise, day and night: faulty bus brakes that shrieked like hurt animals and the repeated whoosh of passing cars. There was no breeze to cool down the local infants and stop them from wailing – nor to disperse the intermittent stench from next door’s drains.
Abe thought of his father skulking about on the bottom two floors. He imagined him stooping, half asleep, under the low basement ceiling, holding a spliff between his thumb and index finger, raising it to his mouth out of vagueness rather than for pleasure. He had assumed that Neil’s choice of leaving the upper floors empty had come from laziness, combined with an ignorance of property values and ways of increasing them – even from an aversion to increasing value on principle. Abe didn’t credit his father with making practical decisions but he had to acknowledge, in the present heat, that maybe Neil’s choice of carelessly ignoring half of the house hadn’t been so stupid after all. Abe found himself thinking of his father. Since giving up full-time work, he thought of him often. He had intimations of failure – sensing what that might feel like – while anticipating that he had endless time and talent to ward failure off.
By eleven at night the air had cooled a little, but Abe left the portable electric fan running. He picked up a solitary banana from the bowl on the table and began to peel it. He had eaten the end of a loaf earlier. Now he felt hungry. He went through to his kitchen and opened one of the cupboards. There was a selection of vitamins in brown bottles, also some small jars; chilli flakes, curry powder, coriander seed, mixed herbs. He had tea, coffee, a tin of tomato puree, a packet of basmati rice. Abe shook the rice packet. Empty – like his bank account. He aimed it at the sleek Swedish bin.
Abe had started sharing the shifts at Karumi with his friend, Shane, working a few afternoons a week. The pay was fairly basic. His boss made a lot of the fact that the employees could have treatment at fifty per cent but as Abe didn’t have tendonitis, sciatica, trapped nerve or any kind of back, neck or joint pain, this wasn’t much of a perk. The Japanese-exercise-equipment idea, which had seemed poised like a Hokusai wave ready to break, was now more of an outgoing tide. Neither the keyholder of the storage facility in Barking, where the equipment was allegedly housed, nor the head man in Dorset returned their calls. On weekday mornings, when Kirsty struggled in to central London in the rush hour, Abe took himself off to the park. The trees, heavy with leaves, made interlocking pools of shadow down the main path and straggly roses had begun flowering in the formal beds. Abe chose a tree that stood by itself – a copper beech – and lay beneath it, catching up on the sleep that eluded him at night. The sleep was weird; not really restful. He dreamt, on one occasion, of dancing a slow sexy dance with the man who worked at the checkout of the local Costcutter. This was an unhurried, memorable dream, not spoiled by the furtive knowledge that in reality the man was charm-free. Mostly they were short napping dreams about work, being late, fighting muggers. Through half-closed eyes, Abe was aware of the park characters who sat on benches and walked between the shrubs, muttering to themselves. They left him alone in his own private shadow with his head resting on his T-shirt.
Abe finished the banana and lit a cigarette. Sometimes he thought that he would be forced back into marketing. He couldn’t doze his life away. The part of his brain that was used for work had moulded to marketing ways. No one had told him how careful you had to be about your first career choice – that there might be divorce proceedings but certainly not annulment. He could write the marketing job ads in his head. There was no need to buy a newspaper and turn to the appointments. An outstanding opportunity to make a major contribution to a growing business with a highly satisfied customer base. He played around, shuffling words. A growing opportunity to make a highly satisfied contribution to a major business with an outstanding customer base. He could see the layout of the imaginary application form; the creepy section headed Is there anything else you would like to tell us about yourself? No, was the answer. The pages of the A4 notebook he carried around with him remained blank.
At about midnight Kirsty’s doorbell rang. As the bell box was placed high in the hall, the sound carried all the way up the house. After a few seconds it went again; insistent this time, as if the person outside was leaning on the button. Abe went out to the top landing. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he said. He switched on the light, leant over the banister rail and looked down the well of the house, but there was no sign of Kirsty. He came clattering down the front stairs. A pale face was pressed up against the glass of the front door. Minicab drivers were face-pressers, especially if they’d come to the wrong address. Friends generally weren’t. Abe opened the door, prepared to slam it straight back. Luka was on the doorstep. ‘Where is Kirsty?’ he said.
‘No idea,’ Abe said.
‘I’m homeless,’ Luka said. The ‘h’ at the beginning of the word emerged guttural and melancholy from far down his throat.
‘You’d better come in,’ Abe said.
Luka stepped inside. Kirsty came along the hall just then, fresh out of the bath, making wet footprints on the floor. She stopped when she saw Luka and pulled the belt of her kimono tight round her. ‘Luka. What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘He’s homeless,’ Abe said, shutting the door.
Luka stood holding a large zip-up holdall in front of him with both hands. The bag was heavy and hung sagging a few inches from the floor but he didn’t put it down. ‘My house has been repossessed by the landlord’s mortgage company,’ he said.
‘Which house?’ Kirsty asked.
‘My house. In New Cross. We have all had to leave.’
‘It’s really late, Luka,’ Kirsty said.
‘I’m sorry. I have been travelling all day to far parts of London, taking my boxes, my possessions, to various houses for safe keeping,’ Luka said.
‘Couldn’t any of those people put you up – the ones you took the boxes to?’ Kirsty asked.
‘No. That is impossible. These are cousins of people my mother knows in Zagreb.’
Abe admired the way Luka said ‘no’. The word, stripped of limp, English negativity, had real intent behind it. Luka seemed more foreign than when he had last seen him. Abe couldn’t understand how that had come about. Surely the longer a person spent in a place, the more acclimatised they became? Yet Luka, having seemed like a real Londoner previously, now put up resistance to blending in. His black hair projected defiantly outwards but his body had shrunk into itself. His English was odd. He made a special pocket of air around himself that was not London air.
‘What about Eugen? Can’t you stay with him?’ Kirsty asked.
‘He has gone back to Croatia,’ Luka replied, giving Abe a sidelong look of reproach.
‘Oh Luka, you must be able to find somewhere else?’ Kirsty said. After her initial questions she had caved in. Luka would interpret this as a ‘yes’. Understandably. Abe would do the same himself.
Luka put the bag down on the floor. ‘Where shall I sleep?’ he asked.
‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Abe said.