Blind Needle by Trevor Hoyle Page A

away in exchange for tokens. The wardrobe had a mirror with a bevelled edge set into the door, and my distorted reflection shimmered across its surface as I went to the window and looked down into the darkened street through lace curtains sagging under their burden of grime. I was safe here. No one lurking in the doorway of the abandoned shop opposite. S – wouldn’t have a hope in hell of ever finding me in this godforsaken rat-hole.
    â€˜Where are your luggages?’ the Indian asked me.
    I turned and held up my bundle.
    â€˜What time do you stay?’ He stretched his arms wide as though measuring a fish.
    â€˜A week,’ I shrugged. ‘Not longer.’
    The heavy eyes studied me.
    â€˜I hope to find work.’
    â€˜Here?’ A long slow blink. Stupendous incredulity.
    I suddenly found the missing letters to complete the name of his shop. BENGAL. I said rashly, ‘I have a friend – here, in the town – he promised me a job. I’ll see him tomorrow.’
    â€˜No money back,’ he said sullenly.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Twelve pounds for one week or less. No refusal.’
    â€˜No refund,’ I said. ‘I understand.’
    He flapped across to the washstand and looked inside the jug. Then a thumb with a vicious curved nail jerked towards the landing. ‘Toilet next door.’ He twirled an invisible tap. ‘Water – if you need.’
    He went to the door, flap-flap-flap, and the sight of the light switch must have reminded him. ‘Lights finish twelve o’clock,’ he said, pointing at the bulb in its furred shade. He jabbed down at his feet. ‘I turn box off twelve o’clock. Lights finish,’ he swiped the air with his vicious claws.
    â€˜That’s okay. I won’t need it.’
    â€˜Your friend a businessman?’
    â€˜Sort of, yes.’ I dropped my bundle on the floor. ‘A man called Benson.’
    He stared at me, eyes dark and liquid, suddenly alert. ‘CouncillorBenson is your friend?’
    I leant over the bed, testing it with my outstretched hands. I hadn’t expected the name to mean anything, it was just something to reassure him. I said, ‘You know him?’
    â€˜I meet him twice. I make complaints. These yobboes break my window and the police do nothing.’ He became agitated. ‘I am respectable. But when the police come they laugh and make’ – he swayed to and fro, waving his hands – ‘I dunno the word. Riddles. No, no …’
    â€˜Jokes?’
    He nodded vigorously. ‘They make jokes. And do this –’ He stood in the doorway, shrugging elaborately under the shapeless garment that hung to his knees. ‘I make complaint to Councillor Benson. He is a businessman like me. B-H Haulage Company Limited. Mr Benson understands.’
    The bell tinkled below. He seemed reluctant to leave, as if he had found an ally in the enemy camp, a friend of the powerful. He knew the way the world worked. Business looked after its own. Policemen were untrustworthy, they had the prejudice of their kind. But businessmen didn’t let prejudice get in the way of making money. I closed the door, hearing him flap softly down the stairs.
    I spread the blankets out, took off my boots, and lay down on the bed. The overhead light, dim as it was, was shining in my eyes. I turned it off and stretched out. I wasn’t tired, a little foot-weary that was all, but I needed to think. There was a stacatto babble going on in the shop directly below, faint yet distinct. Now that I had a roof over my head, and a short breathing space, I began to consider more carefully what I had to do and how it should be done.
    I hadn’t known Benson was a councillor, nor that he owned a haulage firm. That knowledge could be useful – point me in certain directions. Yet how could a haulage company, or any kind of company, I wondered, survive and remain profitable