Lauriechuckled, shaking the stepladder dangerously beneath him.In themagical shadows of the stage below, Dora flitted back and forth,never failing to give him a glittering smile or a wave.Nevertheless, as the afternoon began to close in to December dusk,he climbed down, washed the paint from his hands with eye-stingingturpentine, and set off—not in the direction of home.
Chapter Two
Sashahad been right: once you started seeing, you couldn’t stop.Hejogged down the lane that bordered Charing Cross station, feelingas if either he or it had been newly made.It was a magnet fordown-and-outs, scooping up those who came here from the easterncounties, just as those from the north arrived and sold themselvesaround King’s Cross and sometimes got no further.For every coffeevendor and stall of trinket souvenirs, there were at least tenlost-looking souls curled up on the steps and the pavements betweenthem.God, was it just that he was hungry that his senses seemed sokeen?The contrasting shades of the fruit on the greengrocer’sstall reached up and hit him.Everything on the stalls, he saw forthe first time, was placed just out of reach of any thin, graspinghands, and was watched over narrowly by the vendors.The scents offresh-ground beans shivered in the back of his throat.And he couldnot stop noticing the dispossessed.
Lauriefound it hard to understand.These routes across the city were notnew to him, were his jungle paths.Mayfair and the Strand, acrossthe Hungerford Bridge to the only part of South London consideredappropriate for young men of his class to visit—the South Bankdevelopment with its film houses and Royal Festival Hall.It wasn’tthat he had not noticed that the steps up to the bridge and thespace underneath it were scattered with huddled human shapes inblankets; how could he have failed to?Sometimes it was a case ofstepping over oblivious outstretched legs, or the patient companiondogs who, in this heartland of English values, extracted moreattention and handfuls of change from passersby than their owners.Had he simply dance stepped or dreamed his way past, distracted byhis companions, head full of whatever film or play he had justseen?
And yeteach one of these was as real, as individual, as Sasha.As Lauriehimself.And they were legion.If Laurie threw down a twenty—oreven a few pence—here, what would he do for the next and thenext?
Pausingin the entrance to the Charing Cross Tube station, Laurie felt hismouth go dry, his head spin as if he had suddenly been placed onthe edge of a yawning precipice.This was the pit of human need,the world on which his own lay like a glittering crust.It wasbottomless.Laurie could pour a family fortune into it, cause SirWilliam to die of apoplexy when he found out, and make nodifference at all.To think of his father was to conjure his voicein his head, reminding Laurie that not all the flotsam here werewithout choice, lost, deserving of sympathy.That the majority weredrunkards, junkies, scroungers.Laurie shook his head.He didn’twant to hear this litany now.There was a dreadful comfort in it, acop-out from all responsibility.Layabouts and crooks could beignored.
Hehardly knew what he was doing, continuing his path through thestation and out into the light on the other side, streaked herewith shadows from the riverside trees stripped of leaves.A fewdown-and-outs were clustered here too, on the plaza the citycouncil was so diligently trying to make bright and multicultural.Almost at random, Laurie cautiously approached an old man proppedagainst the foot of Nelson Mandela’s statue.Pigeons waddled aroundhim.As Laurie crouched, they went up in a dusty, clattering rush.Laurie repressed a flinch.His heart was beating violently anyway.“Excuse me,” he said, suddenly painfully aware of his own soft butdefinitely upper-class accent.“Do you know of a boy sleeping roughnear here—Eastern European, I think, about my age—calledSasha?”
It wassuch a long shot.Laurie was ashamed, almost before the questionwas finished.How stupid of him, to assume that this man would knowof the existence of one homeless boy, just because they shared thesame social substratum—about as stupid as the occasional AmericansLaurie had met who asked him if he knew such and such a personbecause he too lived in the UK.
The oldman squinted up at him.“Not gonna offer me a bed for the night atthe cost of my dirty old soul, then?”
Laurieblinked.Then he understood.He had seen, without taking it in, theusual type of young man who stopped to talk to down-and-outs.Neatly suited, ties tied tight, often clutching a well-worn Bible.As far as he had thought of them at all, Laurie had wondered ifthey were not simply another kind of predator.
He saidcautiously, a little unnerved by the bitter, amused gleam in theold man’s eyes, “No.Seems a bit of a steep price.I hope theythrow in supper.”He pulled out a few pound coins from his pocket.To his surprise, as he straightened up, the old man jerked a thumbin the direction of the next bridge upriver.
Repeating the question to the hard-eyed young thug whointercepted him under the arches was more difficult.
“Who wants to know?”
Lauriekept his spine straight, resisted the temptation to look down.Hewasn’t afraid, exactly.Anyone who had incurred the wrath of SirWilliam Fitzroy was not easily daunted by the prospect of physicalconfrontation.But now, as well as his accent, he was acutelyconscious of his whole presentation—his clothes, the differencebetween his own slender but healthy build and the rawbonedemaciation of this gatekeeper.Beyond him, in the shadow of thearches, Laurie could see small bonfires, a shantytown of boxes,black plastic bags, ragged tarpaulin sheets rigged into tents.Hesupposed this boy took his turn on guard duty, stalling visitorslong enough to let the others conceal what they had to or makethemselves scarce.Laurie didn’t think he was likely to be takenfor an undercover cop or the world’s least convincing socialworker, but he was going to have to say something to account forhimself.“I’m a friend of his,” he said awkwardly, then added, withsurprise at his own cunning, “I owe him a bit of money.”
Hisinterlocutor snorted.“Oh, right, Prince Harry.Did he win it offyou at a polo match?Give it to me.I’ll see he gets itsafe.”
There was something in this sardonic offer that made Laurie’sheart give a bump.He is here, then.Whatare the odds?Keeping his own tone clear ofanswering dryness, he said, “I’d rather give it to him myself, ifthat’s okay.Is he around?”
“I’m afraid my lord Sasha is transacting a piece of business atpresent,” the young thug informed him, dropping his Glaswegianaccent for a creditable imitation of Laurie’s own.He glanced offto his left, where the arches plunged down into fire-paintedshadows, and Laurie did too—in time to see what looked like awell-to-do city trader emerge from behind one of the piers andscuttle away.
A momentlater, Sasha appeared, pale and unsteady, wiping his mouth.He sawLaurie and stopped dead.
“What’s the matter?”Laurie’s companion demanded, plainlyamused by his blank-faced astonishment.“Did he give you one oncredit?How good of you to come and settle up.”
Lauriewas suddenly tired of him.His own temper rose only rarely, butwhen it did, it burned far more fiercely than his father’s—a clean,cold flame.He rounded on the other boy.“What bloody business isit of yours?I’m here to talk to him, not you.Now backoff!”
Interesting, Laurie.He surprisedhimself again, glancing around him to where one dangerous-lookinglad had multiplied to half a dozen, with as many again coalescingfrom the shadows as he watched.He’d make good pickings, hesupposed, between his watch and his coat and the contents of hiswallet.Still the fear refused to spark in him, even now when itwould have been in his best interests to break and run.
A warmhand closed on his wrist.It tugged him lightly back and to oneside.Before Laurie could move or react, Sasha had stepped in frontof him, a glimmer of steel flashing back firelight in his fist.“Forget about it, Len,” Sasha growled, his voice the same exoticmusic Laurie had heard the night before, turned ominous and chillynow with anger.“All of you.Leave him alone.”
Whateverstatus Sasha held in this demimonde and whatever he chose to do tomake ends meet, he was well enough respected for the little crowdto part as he steered Laurie through, back toward daylight.Only afew catcalls and falsetto cries of “Oh, Prince Harry!”came afterthem.He’d put an arm protectively around Laurie’s back, thegesture at once shaming him and touching himindefinably.
“Thanks for that.But I can take care of myself, youknow.”
Sashanodded, continuing to guide him out, casting the occasionalbackward glance.He was nervy even by the standard of the streetpeople Laurie had observed up till now, his wary gaze scanning theriverside promenade constantly.“I’m sure.Fencing?Boxing?”
Laurieflushed.He had learned judo too, but knew he required a courtlybow over the mat before engaging in combat.
“Forgive me, but Len won’t say en garde to you.Laurie, whatthe hell are you doing here?”
I dreamed of you all last night and thought of you most oftoday.You’re like a new source of gravity, drawing me in.I thinkI fancy you.Laurie’s mind shied off fromthese truths, and he said, almost casually, “I wanted to see youwere okay after yesterday.It was perishing cold lastnight.”
“Yes, enough to freeze the balls off brass monkeys,” Sashaagreed, the expression in his velvety, faraway accent making Lauriesmile.“But I don’t understand how you found me.I…”
Hestopped and carefully let Laurie go.Laurie turned to face him,aware of a cold place around his shoulders where Sasha’s arm hadbeen.“What is it?”
