William Brodrick - The Gardens of the Dead

‘Tottenham.’

The back door slammed as if they’d had a row Standing by the window, Nancy watched her man as if he were on another planet. A dense mist had risen off the Thames and dissolved the streets of Poplar. It would swamp the Isle of Dogs from Canary Wharf to Cubitt Town. Street-lights hung like saucers and Riley slowly disintegrated. When he’d vanished, Nancy turned to Arnold. His little legs started moving and the wheel clinked and whirred.

‘How on earth did he get like that?’ she asked sorrowfully.

As arranged, Anselm arrived at the Vault near Euston Station at seven in the morning. Scaffolds and hoarding covered tall buildings on either side of the day centre. Sheets of polythene flapped and winches clinked in the breeze. A queue of figures shuffled to a gate, evoking the fortitude of travellers bound for the New World. Anselm passed behind them into a narrow, cobbled lane and found the back-door buzzer beneath a nameplate.

‘How is Uncle Cyril?’ asked Debbie Lynwood, opening the door to her office at the end of a dimly lit corridor.

‘Hot and bothered,’ said Anselm. ‘I threw away a receipt.’

‘Cantankerous beast.’

Anselm had expected genetic determinism (bulk in overalls) but Debbie’s frame was slight. She wore black trousers and a scarlet roll-neck jumper. A selection of enamel badges revealed an interest in classic motorcycles.

‘I can’t promise much,’ she said, hands in her back pockets. ‘Finding someone on the street is almost impossible. But I know a man who might be able to help – someone who knows the ropes.’ She moved across the room towards a door that led onto the Vault itself. In the middle was a round window. On the other side Anselm saw the blue haze of smoke. Dark figures crossed slowly as if wading through water. ‘When I mentioned what I knew of you,’ said Debbie thoughtfully ‘he was eager to meet you. Wait here.’

She opened the door and a low industrious hum spilled into the office. As he waited, Anselm absorbed his surroundings: a wall of box files, posters displaying information, an old school desk, a worn blue carpet… and a short, wiry man holding a staff like a curtain rail with an ornamental knob. He wore a green cagoule, his trousers were tucked into his socks, and he shouldered a backpack. His feet, in polished, split brogues, were splayed outwards. A thin, grizzled beard covered an oblong chin.

‘May I present Mr Francis Hillsden,’ said Debbie.

The traveller made a short bow with his head and shook Anselm’s hand. A pleasure, with respect,’ he said, keeping his eyes averted. They were blue and seemed to be smarting.

Debbie invited Anselm to speak as they pulled up chairs in a triangle. Mr Hillsden perched himself on the edge of his seat, gripping his staff as though it were a pole to a room below.

‘I am looking for a man in his sixties,’ said Anselm. ‘His name is David George Bradshaw I understand he is known as Blind George.’

‘By whom, if I might respectfully ask?’ His accent was soft, a cultured voice from the West Country. ‘I hope my interjection does not trouble you?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Anselm. A sense of deja vu flashed like a weak light. ‘That’s his name among other homeless people.’

Mr Hillsden gave a brief nod as if he’d made a note of the reply ‘Mr Bradshaw has restricted vision?’

‘No. But he wears welding goggles. I don’t know why’

‘To hide his face?’ The suggestion was directed towards one of the posters on the facing wall.

‘Maybe… I’m told he keeps his own company’ Anselm felt uneasy as if he were hiding the part he’d played in the downfall of a man. ‘Until recently Mr Bradshaw stayed beneath a fire escape at Trespass Place. He was waiting there for a colleague of mine who unfortunately died. When I went to meet him on her behalf he had gone. I have an important message for him – in effect, that I will continue what they were doing in her stead.’

‘In the first place, I offer my condolences.’ Mr Hillsden’s eyelids twitched as if troubled by a particle of grit. ‘But secondly with respect, if this gentleman has withdrawn from the company of men, how might one ask questions as to his whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know’

A fair answer, if I may say so. Where is Trespass Place?’

Anselm explained, adding that while Mr Bradshaw might not be blind, his memory had been shattered; that he held time together with a series of notebooks – a detail that somehow seemed to define the man he was looking for.

‘A wise practice,’ observed Mr Hillsden. He became abruptly stern, glancing round as if he’d heard a voice of contradiction. He banged his staff twice and the severity dissolved. Twitching again, he said, ‘I don’t wish to intrude, but have you met Mr Bradshaw before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frequently?’

‘Once.’

‘Would he remember you?’

Anselm was stung more by the innocence of the question than its pertinence. His face grew hot: Mr Hillsden was proceeding with him as he had once proceeded with Mr Bradshaw Neither of them had known what they were doing. ‘I hope not,’ said Anselm gravely not daring to look up. He let his eyes rest upon the shining brogues and the socks outside the trousers.

No one spoke after that. Mr Hillsden seemed to be deliberating. Presently he said, ‘My colleagues on the street tend to have what might be called a patch. Most of us do not stray from it. When we do, I’m afraid, it is usually for a serious reason. And when we move, it is not to another part of London, but a different corner of England. That, at least, has been my experience. He stood up, bringing Anselm and Debbie to their feet. ‘I’ll go over to the South Bank, though I fear the venture will be futile. But should I find him, the most I can do is invite him here. Without his express permission, I would not reveal his location.’

‘Of course,’ said Anselm. He had the peculiar sensation of standing before a High Court Master in an application for Wasted Costs. He reached into his habit pocket, aware that his coming gesture was ridiculous but necessary: ‘Please, may I cover your expenses?’

‘Thank you, but no,’ said Mr Hillsden graciously ‘I have adequate means which I am happy to place at your disposal.’ He looked down at his feet. Briskly he raised his head and for a split second his blue, watery eyes latched on to Anselm. ‘I understand you were once at the Bar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which Inn?’

‘Gray’s.’

Mr Hillsden seemed to breathe in the sound. A ghostly calm changed his face. ‘Fantastic forms, whither are ye fled?’

He frowned as if trying to remember what came next. Anselm knew these words of Lamb, but he too was stuck. Suddenly Mr Hillsden swung to the door with the round window. Without hesitating, he strode into the heavy murmuring and the blue smoke, his stick tapping on the floor.

Riley stood at the foot of the stairs in an empty house in Tottenham. It was cold and damp and his heart was beating fast. He stared at the bottom step.

‘Who sent the photograph of Walter?’

His eyes moved to the chipped baluster, following the spindles up to the gloom of an unlit landing. The silence opened a door on those shouting voices, the scuffling of feet and whatever it was that ended up smashed on the floor. As a boy in the boxroom, he used to beg God to make it stop. And funnily enough, He did. Shortly afterwards things would go quiet and he’d say ‘Thank you, thank you,’ his head still under his pillow.

Riley set to work, lifting and dragging. He loaded up the tables and chairs, the mirrors and cupboards, a lamp stand and four candlesticks. His feet stamped out the memory of his childhood, but others from last week licked him. It was always like this. His head was full of noise. He played arguments like they were favourite records, changing the words for a bit of variety. It was exhausting, but anger made him feel alive. In a full-blooded row, he’d pass through a kind of barrier and float, hardly breathing; he’d think up things to say and pass them on, as if to someone else. It was a long way from the gratitude of a boy in the boxroom.