Clapham Lights by Tom Canty

Bank. Mark, who has indigestion after finishing off his fish and chips in less than two minutes, is at the bar getting a second jug of lager. The wind has dropped and it’s warmer than it was earlier.
    A half-full Thames Clipper cruises past and Craig leans against the railings and gazes down at the tea-coloured river as tiny waves break against the wall. In the distance, the dome of St Paul’s dominates the skyline.
    Mark shuffles back through the crowd with the refilled jug and drops back down at the table.
    ‘Feeling any better?’ Craig asks.
    ‘Yeah a bit. Just trapped wind I think.’ Mark fills their glasses and takes a huge glug. ‘I like doing stuff on a Sunday. It gets a bit boring sitting around the house.’
    ‘Normally you’ve got a hangover.’
    ‘True. I was looking up reviews of the exhibition when I was sitting in the toilet.’
    ‘What did it say?’
    ‘The papers absolutely slated it. They basically said that a bunch of complete unknowns had been given a lot of money they didn’t deserve and had produced a lot of rubbish. No wonder they had so many freetickets to give away at work. The whole thing’s been a complete disaster apparently, apart from for the guy who sold the magnifying glass thing. You never know, that might turn out to be a bargain if he gets famous, although I doubt it. Did I tell you I’d invested in a couple of paintings?’
    ‘No,’ Craig says, surprised. ‘What are they?’
    ‘Abstracts, by a girl I met in a club back home. She was a student at the local art college and invited me along to her graduate show. They were five hundred quid, together, but they’re pretty good. Here, I’ll show you, I’ve got pictures on my phone.’
    They are paintings of geometric circles. The first is one large overlapping pattern within a square, predominantly blue and yellow, on a white background. The second is of twelve smaller circles, four rows of three, which are a variety of green, orange and pink.
    ‘I quite like them actually,’ Craig says. ‘They look like those drawings you used to do with a Spirograph.’
    ‘That’s what she uses.’
    ‘Really? You paid all that for two paintings done with a Spirograph?’
    ‘Yeah, but she’s a proper artist, that’s the difference. And she was fit.’
    ‘So that was the reason.’
    ‘Yeah, but she said she had a boyfriend. I saw her in town last time I went home funnily enough.’
    ‘What was she doing, selling her Spirograph prints to gullible people in a shopping centre?’
    ‘No, she was in Café Nero. Working.’
    Craig laughs. ‘Her art career’s really taken off then?’
    ‘Mate, in twenty years those paintings could be worth millions.’
    ‘Why don’t you put them up in the flat? We could use a bit of colour on the walls.’
    ‘I’d worry about them getting damaged. Anyway I can’t remember where I’ve hidden them.’
    A train crosses Blackfriars Railway Bridge and pulls into the station as Craig stares out across the river at City of London School.
    ‘I’ll be in Café Nero soon if work doesn’t get any better,’ he says.
    ‘Still bad then?’
    ‘It varies. Sometimes it’s all right, but you never know how it’s going to be from one day to the next. It’s just hard to plan to do anything because you never know how much money you’re going to be earningeach month. It all depends on who walks through the door.’
    ‘The market’s taken a hit recently, hasn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, I suppose it has thinking about it.’ Craig sips his beer and looks at Mark. ‘There aren’t any jobs going at your place are there?’ he asks timidly.
    ‘Jobs?’ Mark puffs out his cheeks, tilts his head back and exhales.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘For you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m not sure really, mate. I could have a word in the post room.’
    ‘Mark, I’m not working in the post room.’
    ‘Why not? They get pretty well paid.’
    ‘Isn’t there anything else I could do?’
    ‘The problem is, mate, you’re not really