Warwick Collins - Gents

Published by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Marion Boyars Publishers

This edition published in 2007 by The Friday Project

Text © 2007 Warwick Collins

Warwick Collins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9781905548767

Ebook Edition © JULY 2016 ISBN 9780007391783

Version: 2016-07-18

To Scott Pack

Cover

Title Page GENTS A novel Warwick Collins

Copyright COPYRIGHT Copyright Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Keep Reading About the Publisher Published by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Marion Boyars Publishers This edition published in 2007 by The Friday Project Text © 2007 Warwick Collins Warwick Collins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Source ISBN: 9781905548767 Ebook Edition © JULY 2016 ISBN 9780007391783 Version: 2016-07-18

Dedication DEDICATION Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Keep Reading About the Publisher To Scott Pack

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Keep Reading

About the Publisher

At Charing Cross the two underground trains passed each other like tongues of flame. Ez Murphy saw, in the window’s reflection between a young girl and an elderly woman, his own face dark with the lights shining white on his broad cheekbones.

The trains roared and razored in the confined tunnel. As they crossed, his faded image, obscure against the glossy dark, was thrown into sudden prominence by the rush of white lights behind it. The faces of the two women became ghostly, obliterated by the surging luminescence.

He was in his early forties, well-dressed, stocky, broad-shouldered. In the reflection opposite, his hands floated up to adjust his tie, a startling negative against the washed white of his collar. The two trains passed. During the ensuing silence the faces of the women were restored again, two white flowers.

The train traversed several other stations before it finally slid to a stop with a brief squeal of acquiescence. The doors rumbled open. Ez stepped onto the dimly lit platform and walked to the sign marked EXIT. It was eight twenty-two by the station clock. Travelling up the escalator, he put his ticket in the machine, then paused in the concourse. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to see daylight. Walking up a flight of grey flagged stairs, he stepped out into the street.

Drifts of London sunlight touched his eyes; a flock of pigeons wheeled above the buildings. Traffic fumes hung over the city.

He approached a sign on a wrought iron stairway which said GENTS. Straightening his tie, he walked down the steps. At the bottom, he faced a turnstile. He glanced around for assistance, but could see no one. Shrugging his shoulders, he shifted the change in his pocket and put ten pence in the slot. Then he walked through the turnstile and paused to glance around him.

The interior was faced with geometric tiles, white with a motif of green. The floors were meticulously clean. In the background he could hear the occasional hiss of the fountains. On the right of the entrance, set back discreetly into a wall of rough, whitewashed plaster, was a green-painted door marked MANAGER.

Ez adjusted his collar and knocked.

After a while, the door opened. The man facing him was as tall as a beanpole. His clothes hung on his skinny frame. He had that almost albino whiteness of certain Jamaicans on the south side of the island. Standing in the doorway, he considered Ez for a moment.

“Mr Murphy?”

“That’s right.”

“Josiah Reynolds.” He seemed to pause for several seconds, and Ez gained the impression he was trying to work out something. “Come in, come in.”

Reynolds stood aside. Ez stepped into a small, neat office with a wooden table and several folding chairs. Against the wall was a filing cabinet, on top of which was a shelf with some grey box files. The only decoration on the walls was a white calendar without pictures, covered by the heavy black print of dates. Ez gained the impression of a pervasive austerity.