Christopher Fowler: Disturbia

'Good to see you two haven't run out of things to talk about.'

'I just need to get out for a while, go somewhere where there's some light and air,' said Pam, finishing her cake and carefully brushing the crumbs from the desk. 'The three of us could go away together.'

'Oh, I don't think so.' Vince waved the idea away. They had this conversation twice a month.

'Where would you go if you left London?' asked Louie, filling three cups of coffee on Pam's desk.

'I don't know. There are other cities. I've got to leave the flat. The council's busy stocking my building with rehabilitated sex offenders and refugees who've not quite broken the habit of street-cooking. I'll go somewhere where the men haven't wised up yet. Eastern Europe. Prague, maybe.'

'Prague's full of American students doing Europe.'

'Germany, then. I can't stay here. London is finished. It's dying under the weight of its own past. Look at the place, filthy, run-down, the roads permanently dug up, ugly new buildings cropping up like weeds, the public transport system collapsing, the politicians useless. And everyone's so – angry .'

'It was always like this,' said Vince, accepting one of the coffees. 'Take a look at the old photographs. Barely controlled chaos. That's what I like about it.'

'We know you do,' said Louie. 'Pam was telling me about this Sebastian Wells character. What's the deal?'

'He's a genuine toff, photo in The Tatler, pile in the country, father in the House of Lords. My passport to fame and fortune,' replied Vince. 'When I finally managed to track him down I left about a million messages on his machine, but he didn't answer any of them. Then I wrote to him and explained that I was working on a book – well, he doesn't know it's only a quarter of a book – about the British class system, and he agreed to be my live study subject.'

'What does he do?'

'He plays games.'

'Games? What kind of games?'

'Chess, mah-jong, ancient blocking games, puzzles, word games. I guess he has too much time on his hands.'

'Upper class and idle. And a rich bastard too, I suppose.'

'I don't know, I only just met him. He looks rich. Manicured. His clothes have -' he hunted for a suitable word.

'Linings,' suggested Pam.

'His father's some big shot in the European community. He bombards you with information all the time, like he's teaching you stuff. He likes facts. Exactly what I need.'

'I'm surprised he agreed to let you question him,' said Louie, 'considering your chosen subject.'

'He doesn't know anything about the angle I'm taking,' Vince explained. 'He's gonna let me conduct a series of interviews, but he's asked to vet the manuscript once I've finished.'

'What if he doesn't like what you've written? He could screw the whole thing up. You're better off being honest right from the outset.'

Vince dropped his chin into his hands and looked out through the plastic sale-cards that dangled in the windows. 'I don't know. This is the first break I've had. People aren't prepared to talk about the class system when it works in their favour. They're wary of making enemies. As it is, I feel like I'm writing this under false pretences.'

'You won't be if you have to show him everything you intend to publish. So long as he has final approval, you might as well be employed by him.' Louie checked his Swatch, then hefted a sports bag onto his shoulder and rose, turning to Vince. There's a simple way around that, of course. Take what you can from this geezer, lie yourself blue in the face to get his confidence, drain him of information, don't show him what you've written, then do a real slag-off job in print. That's how the tabloids do it. What do you care? He can't sue if it's all true.'

'Nice attitude, Louie,' said Pam. 'Can't you see that Vince feels uncomfortable about using someone?' She did not understand his choice of career, but was always ready to defend him. To her, writing seemed a peculiar way to try to earn a living, as did any job without set lunch-hours.

'He's unlike anyone I've ever met,' Vince tried to explain. 'His accent is so refined I can barely understand him. He can trace his ancestors back hundreds of years, to the House of York, John of Gaunt, all the Edwards and Richards. I can't trace mine back two generations. If I was him, I wouldn't even consider passing the time of day with me.'

'You're in awe of him, you wanker,' shouted Louie gleefully. 'You've gone all proley and apologetic. He's already got to you. That's how it works, don't you see? They come on all superior and charming, and moments later you're wringing your cloth cap between your hands and making excuses for getting in the way of their horses.'

'You do always put yourself down, Vince,' said Pam, clearing away the cartons, cups and paper bags that had held their lunch. 'It's such a shame. You've no self-esteem. Of course, neither have I, which is probably why I haven't had a date this year unless you count Darren Wadsworth, and I don't. Wait until I've finished my business management course, though. I'll be a new me.'

Vince doubted it. Over the years his oldest female friend had not changed one atom. She was still hopelessly shy and inward-looking, and clung to the idea that the courses she took would eventually provide her with a dynamic personality, a change of character that would finally enable her to marry him and settle down.

'It's great that you're getting a break on your project. I'm very pleased for you. You just don't look too happy about it, that's all.'

'It's because we got on so well. I didn't think we would.'

'Where's the problem in that?'

It was so hard to put into words that he felt uncomfortable even discussing it with Pam. 'I don't get it,' he said finally. 'I'm the only one who benefits. Why would he bother to help me? What's in it for him?'

'You wanna watch it,' Louie said and laughed. 'It'll be up to his club for tea and crumpets, a fine claret and a spot of buggery, and before you know it you'll be back on the street with a sore arse and a gold sovereign for your troubles.'

Vince laughed too, but the questions in his head remained unanswered.

THEY HAD arranged to meet for the first of their formal interviews in three days' time. But here he was, standing before Vince in the reference room of Camden Library, the honourable Sebastian Wells himself. He had been seated across the room, making notes from a stack of what appeared to be gaming manuals. He was paler and thinner than Vince remembered, dressed in a superbly cut black suit and club tie, far too immaculate for grungy old North London.

'Well, we meet again!'

'Jesus! Sorry,' said Vince, jumping. 'You always seem to catch me unawares. What are you doing here?'

'I must admit it's not my territory, but I needed to look up the rules of a rather obscure Polynesian blocking game, and Highgate Library recommended a book held here. Saves spending hours at the British Library. What about you?'

'The usual, research.'

Sebastian pulled out a chair and sat opposite. 'I've been doing some thinking.'

He's changed his mind, thought Vince, he doesn't want to be interviewed.

'The day before yesterday I agreed to answer your questions, didn't I, but you know, perhaps you can help me just as much.'

'I can? How?'

'In our brief chat you made me realise just how little I know about working-class London. Forgive me, but you did admit to being working class.' He smiled pleasantly, anxious not to cause offence.

'Absolutely.'

'So you can teach me something as well.'

'What would you want to know?'

'Facts, Mr.Reynolds, facts. The more one is in possession of them, the better one's overall frame of reference. How long are you going to be here today?'