fugitive delight.
‘You should visit my mother,’ he told his father, but he knew Tomasz would not. Tomasz had cried when he told him he was going; but then, he cried a great deal anyway, Luke observed.
He took his cold money, his familiar clothes and his record player – with the catches sellotaped over for safety. He took as many of the things he loved as would fit into his bags, and left for the station. He imagined carrying the glass crucifix to London on his back and almost did it, just because the idea made him laugh.
Friday. Five o’clock. Darkness falling. Luke had only been to King’s Cross once before, for the National Gallery with his mother and now, bent under the weight of his belongings, the pigeon-seething arches high above him, he walked through the crowds with the ghost of her at his side, and fear for her. The distance between them stretched from his back like sinew.
He crossed the street to a newsagent and bought a stack of postcards – Buckingham Palace, Beefeaters – and digging into his pocket for a pencil, wrote two of them there in the shop, leaning on the counter.
In London. Safe. Luke.
Both the same. He addressed one to the asylum and one to his father’s house and then he went out and posted them immediately in the box on the corner. He couldn’t hear them drop, they just disappeared, two small gestures towards redemption. The line was cut. The noose, the hook, the web had gone. He was free-falling and newborn. All he could see was grey and black. Lines of cars and noise covering everything and the crowds of blind strangers. Then, all at once, the long line of streetlamps came on. Nobody else looked up but Luke. He turned his face to the celebration parade of lights. The streetlamps greeted his release in silent chorus. The short burst of a car horn brought him back.
He had one plan and no back-up.
He looked around for a phone box, pushed through the people and hauled open the door. He set down his bags and record player on the ground but they didn’t fit and stayed wedged half in and half out, rain spreading in dark stains on the canvas. The phone box smelled of piss, glass panels scratched with initials from coins or knives, cigarette burns on the chipped paint divides. Luke pulled up the A–D phone book from its metal casing and ruffled the thin pages. D for Driscoll . Paul Driscoll . Producer. D . . .
And Paul Driscoll, all unknowing, just a few tube stops away, shaved before the dripping mirror of his flat in Barons Court.
Paul almost didn’t hear the telephone ringing over the running tap but when he did he wiped the soap from his face and turned off the water. It had stopped. He waited, looking at himself emerging from the mirror that dripped as the air cooled, then turned on the tap again. He knew the phone would start if he did. And there it was. Insistent and bogeycoloured, it stood on a small table near the front door. Paul went to it and picked it up.
‘Paul Driscoll.’
‘Hiya, Paul, it’s Luke.’
‘Who?’
‘Luke Kanowski.’
‘Have you got the right number?’
‘I hope so. There are five in the book and you’re the last.’
‘Do I know you?’ Paul could hear noise behind, traffic.
‘I’m Luke Kanowski from Seston. You were in a Mini with Leigh, I think she was called. Joe Furst?’
‘Bloody hell. What are you doing in London?’
‘I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
Evening had darkened the room while he was bathing. Paul switched on the overhead. Sudden brightness. He remembered ghostly Seston, the pub, the bizarre young man spouting Oedipus , and beautiful, curvaceous Leigh Radley whom he hadn’t seen since.
‘Hello?’ said the crackly voice of Luke Kanowski. ‘You busy, then?’
‘Yeah, hold on,’ said Paul. He thought some more. Then, ‘I was just on my way out – want to meet up for a coffee or something?’
‘Coffee?’ said Luke, as if the word were golden. ‘Yes.’
They met at the tube station; Paul,
‘You should visit my mother,’ he told his father, but he knew Tomasz would not. Tomasz had cried when he told him he was going; but then, he cried a great deal anyway, Luke observed.
He took his cold money, his familiar clothes and his record player – with the catches sellotaped over for safety. He took as many of the things he loved as would fit into his bags, and left for the station. He imagined carrying the glass crucifix to London on his back and almost did it, just because the idea made him laugh.
Friday. Five o’clock. Darkness falling. Luke had only been to King’s Cross once before, for the National Gallery with his mother and now, bent under the weight of his belongings, the pigeon-seething arches high above him, he walked through the crowds with the ghost of her at his side, and fear for her. The distance between them stretched from his back like sinew.
He crossed the street to a newsagent and bought a stack of postcards – Buckingham Palace, Beefeaters – and digging into his pocket for a pencil, wrote two of them there in the shop, leaning on the counter.
In London. Safe. Luke.
Both the same. He addressed one to the asylum and one to his father’s house and then he went out and posted them immediately in the box on the corner. He couldn’t hear them drop, they just disappeared, two small gestures towards redemption. The line was cut. The noose, the hook, the web had gone. He was free-falling and newborn. All he could see was grey and black. Lines of cars and noise covering everything and the crowds of blind strangers. Then, all at once, the long line of streetlamps came on. Nobody else looked up but Luke. He turned his face to the celebration parade of lights. The streetlamps greeted his release in silent chorus. The short burst of a car horn brought him back.
He had one plan and no back-up.
He looked around for a phone box, pushed through the people and hauled open the door. He set down his bags and record player on the ground but they didn’t fit and stayed wedged half in and half out, rain spreading in dark stains on the canvas. The phone box smelled of piss, glass panels scratched with initials from coins or knives, cigarette burns on the chipped paint divides. Luke pulled up the A–D phone book from its metal casing and ruffled the thin pages. D for Driscoll . Paul Driscoll . Producer. D . . .
And Paul Driscoll, all unknowing, just a few tube stops away, shaved before the dripping mirror of his flat in Barons Court.
Paul almost didn’t hear the telephone ringing over the running tap but when he did he wiped the soap from his face and turned off the water. It had stopped. He waited, looking at himself emerging from the mirror that dripped as the air cooled, then turned on the tap again. He knew the phone would start if he did. And there it was. Insistent and bogeycoloured, it stood on a small table near the front door. Paul went to it and picked it up.
‘Paul Driscoll.’
‘Hiya, Paul, it’s Luke.’
‘Who?’
‘Luke Kanowski.’
‘Have you got the right number?’
‘I hope so. There are five in the book and you’re the last.’
‘Do I know you?’ Paul could hear noise behind, traffic.
‘I’m Luke Kanowski from Seston. You were in a Mini with Leigh, I think she was called. Joe Furst?’
‘Bloody hell. What are you doing in London?’
‘I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
Evening had darkened the room while he was bathing. Paul switched on the overhead. Sudden brightness. He remembered ghostly Seston, the pub, the bizarre young man spouting Oedipus , and beautiful, curvaceous Leigh Radley whom he hadn’t seen since.
‘Hello?’ said the crackly voice of Luke Kanowski. ‘You busy, then?’
‘Yeah, hold on,’ said Paul. He thought some more. Then, ‘I was just on my way out – want to meet up for a coffee or something?’
‘Coffee?’ said Luke, as if the word were golden. ‘Yes.’
They met at the tube station; Paul,
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