I stumbled and yelped.
‘Take my hand,’ he said. His hand was soft and warm, he gripped mine firmly. The contact reassured me. I shook off my anxiety. He led me through the gloom, then up more stairs and into dim light. We crossed a massive room, pillars lying where they had fallen amidst chunks of plaster, old tea-chests and broken tables. One wall of the room was windows, row upon row, thick with grime. Broken panes gave glimpses of blue sky. Up another set of stairs and along a door-lined corridor.
‘This is it.’ He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it. After the desolation of the rest of the building, I was surprised at the cleanliness and care shown in this room. It had been painted white. On the floor lay an old floral carpet and against one wall was a huge sofa with a bright green bedspread thrown over it. A guitar leant against the arm. Opposite a television, a shelf with books and mementoes. In the far corner, beyond the sofa, there was a mattress and bedding. The wall nearest to the door was broken up by windows; half-way along was a sink, Calor gas cooker, pots and pans; beyond those, a table and a couple of chairs. Everywhere I looked, pinned up on the white background were pictures, line drawings, sketches. Mostly pen and ink or charcoal; faces, street scenes, landscapes. I walked closer.
‘These are brilliant. They yours?’
‘Yep.’ He grinned and filled a kettle.
‘This is Martin.’ I pointed to the portrait. Head and shoulders. The look he’d captured was one of great sadness. ‘He looks lonely, sad.’
‘He was.’ JB lit the stove and came over to the wall.
‘Have you studied art?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’
‘You could sell these.’
‘I do, now and again. But I make more on the chalkies.’
‘Chalkies?’
‘Pavement drawings.’
‘Mickey Mouse, Madonna.’
‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Get the kids and the mums pay.’
‘These are signed P.H. So is JB a nickname?’
‘Tell you’re a detective. Yeah, short for JCB. Used to like to drive ‘em away in my younger days. Sort of stuck.’ He went over and made mugs of coffee. Brought them over. We sat on the sofa. He began to roll a cigarette.
‘So where was Martin going when he left here?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Didn’t he say anything?’
‘Someone had set him up.’
‘How d’you mean?’
He sighed. ‘That second week, Martin had more money. Bought clothes. He was on the streets but it wasn’t just begging any more.’
‘He was a rent boy?’
‘Yeah. Plenty of lads drift into it. There’s a lot of demand. It’s tempting. Anyway, that last night, he came in, early hours it was, said he’d found a new place, someone was going to see him right. Talked about riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’
