“You have no idea.”
“You in trouble?”
“Not with the law, if that’s what you’re asking. Just some strange things going down.”
“Where are you now?”
“On the bus. Heading into your neck of the woods. Going to find a coffee shop and get some lunch. I’m not going back to the house.”
“Hold on a moment, Gabe.”
There is a pause at the end of the phone, and I hear muffled voices as he converses with someone. Eventually, he comes back to me.
“I just sweet-talked my manager, who I now owe big time. I’m leaving earlier, so that I can meet you at four in the Frog. We’re not doing this over the phone. And I’ll tell Shan to get his arse in gear. Can you make yourself busy until then?”
A wave of gratitude fills me. I know I can rely on Josh. We have been in genuinely tricky situations together in the past and helped each other out. If there is anyone in the world I can actually trust with Albert gone, it’s Josh.
“Perfect. See you at four.”
Five past four, I look up just as he breezes into the pub and stands by the door, peering around. Since the last time I saw him, he has kept himself in good shape. I wave him over and grin when his face splits into a wide smile.
He looks really dope with his trim haircut, but entirely out of character in a corporate dark-grey suit, a deep mauve tie and a crisp white shirt.
“Okay,” he says, standing in front of me, his hands held out on either side. “Get it out of your system. I look like I’m due in court, don’t I?”
I smirk at him and shake my head before pushing a bottle of lager his way. After remembering to post the solicitor’s envelope to Edward Callico at the local post office, I’d asked Josh to text me his drink order. Once he has taken a seat opposite, he starts to enthuse about his job, how he was recently promoted to assistant manager for a big hotel chain. Makes perfect sense. Even when we worked the bars, he was good with the punters and at keeping things running, including helping the manager organise rosters. I was the one to sort out any trouble—which rarely happened in our bar—and far better in a fight when we were sleeping rough on the streets. We complemented each other well.
Before we get too settled, he tells me, we should save the meaty stuff for the privacy of his home. I can tell by the excitement in his eyes that he’s keen to hear what I have to tell him, but says he wants to have his partner, Shan—Nishan—listening in as well. We finish our beers, and he leads me out of the pub.
They live in a basement flat in one of the grids of roads set back from Tufnell Park High Street. The three-storey terraced house is Victorian, probably built in the mid-to-late nineteenthcentury. Like many parts of Greater London, Tufnell Park has undergone significant gentrification. Albert would probably have known the architect who built this street of identical-but-stylish terraced houses. Being the basement flat—Josh announces proudly as we enter and descend the few steps into the shaded front garden—they tend to get morning sun flooding the combined living area and kitchen at the rear of the property. Thankfully, he tells me, their bedroom at the front remains undisturbed by sunlight year-round.
I smile to myself but don’t comment on hearing his enthusiasm about a place he can actually call home and live in legitimately without the police turning up unannounced to turf him out. We shared a couple of squats and shop doorways in the past, and we were both used to being forcibly shaken awake in the middle of the night and thrown out to wander the streets.
“Shan’s dad bought this and a couple of other houses in the area at auction. This would have been back in the late nineties,” says Josh, punching a code in and using his thumb to unlock their front door. Josh has always been hopeless with keys. “Investment properties. Converted into flats now. As well as his usual job, Shan acts as their landlord, which means we get to live here rent-free. Sweet deal, huh?”
Josh leads me straight through to the back. Four or five soft-coloured lamps provide accent lighting throughout the cosy room. I dump my rucksack between the small sofa and a leather beanbag before appraising the room. Decorated in a distinctly South Asian style, the space features a framed vintage Bollywood movie poster in pride of place behind the couch. In the corner, lit by a floor lamp, there’s a full-length painting of baked bean cans in the style of Warhol—no doubt Josh trying to put his stamp on the space. Opposite the seating, most telling of all, they have one of the largest flat-screen televisions I have ever seen—taking upmost of the wall—with an array of gadgets and remotes arranged on a long sideboard.
Nishan stands in the well-lit, open kitchen, craning over a pan, the scents of garam masala, turmeric, cinnamon and garlic heavy in the air. I know I experienced living in the grandeur of a Mayfair mansion, more accustomed to odours of old dust and furniture polish, but standing here in their living space is the first time in as long as I can remember that I have had a sense of what a home could feel like.
“I really wasn’t expecting to be fed,” I say, after raising a hand in greeting to Nishan and, at Josh’s direction, taking a seat at their small dining table. Josh goes over, puts his arms around Nishan’s waist, pulls their bodies together and pecks a kiss on his cheek.
“Shan likes to show off his culinary skills,” he says, turning to me.
“Come on, mate. We all have to eat, don’t we? Might as well be something decent.” I have no idea why, but Nishan’s soft Brummie accent always surprises me. According to Josh, he lived in Solihull before moving to London at nineteen to study computer science. When Josh pokes a finger into the pan and takes a taste, producing an obscene moan, Nishan bumps his backside into Josh’s groin to push him away. “Don’t just stand there, you pervert. We have a guest. Offer him a drink.”
We all settle for bottled beers while Josh and I perch at the table, catching up on old times. Josh has always been far more sociable than me and has kept in touch with a few of our old mates. After Josh sets the table, we tuck into Nishan’s excellent food, served in small stainless-steel pots. He produces an assortment of curried fish, plain rice, something he announces asshukto, which contains vegetables in delicious milky gravy, spicy potatoes and cauliflower and a mutton curry calledkoshamangsho. A few more beers and second helpings later and we all sit back, sated.
“You see? This is why I keep him,” says Josh at the end of the meal, getting up and taking away the empty dishes. Nishan sits and watches. They seem to have agreed on an unspoken routine, one cooking, the other cleaning up afterwards. When I rise to volunteer my help, Nishan stops me with a hand on my forearm and a single shake of his head. I sense he enjoys watching his carefree partner dance around the kitchen.
Eventually, Nishan suggests we move to the comfortable seated area with our beers. Josh puts on a pot of coffee and allows the beautiful aroma to blend with the lingering Indian spices. Leaving the settee for the two of them, I sink into the beanbag.
“You’re sleeping on this, by the way,” says Nishan, patting the cushion of the sofa. “Perfectly comfortable. My brother raves about it whenever he comes to stay.”
Josh comes over and joins us. He’s holding a small tray with the coffee pot and cups, a crystal ashtray with matches, and a small silver box. A neat row of roll-up cigarettes is displayed when he flips open the lid.
“That’s because his brother’s usually off his face by the time he hits the sack.”
“Not for me—” I begin, causing Josh to pull a face.