Кейт Уотерхаус - Soho or Alex in Wonderland

So where was that blurry mobile? Was he sure that was the right shelf?

“No messages,” said Stephan Dance, stepping out from behind a stack of packing cases. He was toying with Alex’s mobile, throwing it up and catching it as if playing himself as a screen villain.

“I suppose that bearded Brummie toerag showed you how to get in,” Dance went on. “Last time he was found up here he had to be given a spank. Seems he’s looking for another one.”

“I thought he had permission,” said Alex lamely.

“I shouldn’t think you did, son. But seeing as you’re here, there’s a small matter of fifty quid.”

“I saw Brendan Barton this morning and he didn’t seem all that fussed about it.” What the thump had it to do with this bugger, anyway? Was he the Soho debt collector, or what?

“No, he wouldn’t be, but y’see, son, you don’t owe it to Brendan, you owe it to me.”

“No, I owe it to Brendan. He gave me the money.”

“He gave you money that wasn’t his to give. You owe Brendan, but Brendan owes me. So cutting out the middleman, I want fifty quid from you before you leave this room.”

His mouth dry, Alex said: “I haven’t got it.”

“Oh dear me.”

Christ, he was getting into real trouble here. Serious Soho trouble, he had read about it. “You can take my mobile if you like.”

“I already have a mobile.”

“Or my watch. It’s quite a good one.” It was, too. Chrissy prezzie from Selby.

“I’ve got six watches.”

There was an awkward pause. Dance seemed to be waiting for Alex to make the next move. He didn’t know what to say next. Offer to send the money on? Very likely. “So what do you want to do, then?” he asked.

“Do?” repeated Dance in amused puzzlement. “I don’t do things, son, not in my position. I have things done for me. That’s what staff are for. Don’t go away, will you?”

Alex couldn’t have moved even if he’d dared to. He was petrified. Dance crossed to a doorway leading to the staircase, where there was an ancient bellpush. He pressed it, and sparks flew from it as it buzzed on the floor below. More faulty equipment. And there was still that strong smell of gas. It was a wonder that Stephan Dance hadn’t noticed it.

Then, before the explosion, it was as though the air caught fire, in a series of brilliant cumulus clouds across the room. And ever after, Alex could never remember whether it was as he went under or as he came round that he thought: This must be what it’s like to be dead.

The smell of gas was replaced by the smell of spearmint. Selby. She was forever chewing gum. They had had rows about it, over her not taking it out of her mouth when they were snogging.

What surprised Alex the most, upon opening his eyes, was that he was not in the least surprised to see Selby standing over his bed in some kind of trouser suit arrangement that at once identified her as a nursing orderly. He would be in Leeds General Infirmary, then. How the fook had he got here?

“No — University College Hospital, Gower Street,” corrected Selby.

“So what are you doing here?”

“I work here. Casualty.”

“And what am I doing here? It wasn’t wunner them fookin nail bombs, was it?”

“Gas explosion. What you were doing in a place like that we won’t ask. When in Soho, I suppose.”

“I had a reason. I’ll tell you, one day.”

“I’m sure you will, when you think it up. But the man you were with — was he a friend of yours?”

“Creditor. Why?”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. He got the full blast.”

“What about me? Am I dead?”

“You’ll live. Slight concussion and singed eyebrows, otherwise they wouldn’t have left you to my tender mercies,” smiled Selby. She’d had her hair cut. She was looking really good. Lost some weight too. Got ridder that puppy fat. “I’ve just got to have a word with the doctor. Shan’t be a tick.”

It wasn’t a bed he was lying on, it was one of those stretcher things that they wheeled you about on. He seemed to be in a kind of corridor off the main ward. He had all his clothes on, minus his shirt and jacket. Was he on his way to some department or other, X-ray, maybe, or on his way back? He would soon see.

So that was So-oh done and dusted. He’d scored, had a few laffs, got pissed, made a few mates. Worth a detour. What next?

Selby returned, carrying his jacket and shirt.

“The doctor’s given you the OK to leave, if you feel up to it. Oh, and I forgot — a friend of yours called in, a newspaper reporter, while you were out for the count, but she wouldn’t let him see you. He left you a note. It’s in your inside pocket.”

Alex propped himself up, somewhat groggily, to a sitting position, and took his jacket. The scribbled letter from James Flood was in an envelope together with five twenty-pound notes, bless him.

Glad to hear you’ll be all right when you come round. More than can be said for Stephan Dance — he fully intended to burn the place down, according to Benny Wills, but not so spectacularly. The good news is that what with Christine, Mabel and now this, I’m to be given a bonus. Not bad for a first day’s work, eh? This is your share. Don’t get too pissed. Cheers. Come and see us again soon.

Yes, he would.

Replacing the envelope in his jacket pocket, Alex’s fingers touched a piece of pasteboard. The invitation to the Soho Ball which old Else had given him. He drew it out.

Selby had evidently already seen it. “That’s tonight, in case you’re wondering. Who are you taking?”

“Nobody. For one thing, I don’t have a DJ.”

“There’s a Moss Bros in Covent Garden where you can hire one. You’d just catch them open, if you wanted to go.”

“Do you want to go, Selby?”

“I haven’t been asked yet. But I finish my shift at seven.”

“All right, so I’m asking.”

“You shall go to the ball,” smiled Selby. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you as well. Does this mean we’re an item again?”

“Depends. I’m not going back to Leeds, you know,” she said with her customary stubbornness.

“So I’d have to come down here?”

“Why not?”

Good question. Why ever not? He had lived more life in the past twenty-four hours than in the last year.

Course, it wouldn’t be like that every day. With Leeds caution he said: “What if it doesn’t work out?”

“What if it doesn’t?” shrugged Selby. “We’re young enough. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Nor would it, put like that. “Where are you living?” he asked her.

“Stanmore, at present, in a nurses’ hostel.”

Where the fook was Stanmore?

“Fook Stanmore. I’d want to live in So-oh.”

“So would I, when we could afford it.”

Hooked on Soho, then, the pair of them. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said, the native caution returning. “What would I do down here?”

With a touch of her old impatience Selby said: “Oh, you’ll pick up something. There’s always plenty going on in Soho.”

“Yes,” said Alex with a rather secretive smile, reaching for his shirt. “I’ve already found that. All right, Sel, I’ve thought about it.”