Flesh And Blood by John Harvey

least.’

9
    Shane Donald stepped out of the station and stood on the lower step, looking around. Uncertain. Great pillars behind him, like it was the entrance to Buckingham Palace or something, some stately home, not poxy Huddersfield station. His travel warrant still in his pocket, the one they’d given him when he’d left prison that morning. Duffel bag over one shoulder, two carrier bags: all the things he owned.
    He’d put on weight inside, filled out; muscle on his arms and legs, quite hard. Strong, even though he might not have looked it at first glance. He liked that. Taller, too, five eight or nine. Hair cut short and fine stubble sandpapering his face.
    No longer a kid.
    They’d given him a map, hand-drawn, how to find the hostel, instructions written down. He could always ask someone, he supposed, but he’d rather not do that. Keep yourself to yourself, avoid looking anyone in the eye: one of the things he’d learned inside. Just one. And there were others, too. Keep yourself to yourself, but if you can’t…
    He stepped out from the kerb and crossed the street.
    ♦
    The probation hostel was in a large Victorian building, detached, set back off one of the broad tree-lined roads slowly rising out of the town centre. Several of the others, close by, looked to have been turned into guest-houses, small hotels.
    Donald had checked his piece of paper several times on the way out there, fidgeting it in and out of his pocket, folding and unfolding and then folding it again; he was looking at it again now, wanting to be certain of the number.
    As he stared up at the house, someone moved behind one of the upstairs windows and he felt a sudden urge to turn and run, go back the way he’d come and keep on going. Lose himself. He’d done it before.
    The front door opened and a man was standing there, sandy-haired, forties, a grey cardigan unbuttoned over a faded green shirt, grey trousers, sandals.
    ‘Shane Donald? Good. Excellent.’ Walking towards him now. ‘You’re joining us today. I thought you’d be here pretty much round now. Though with the trains the way they are these days, you can never tell.’
    He held out his hand.
    ‘Peter Gribbens. Assistant manager. I’m to be your key worker.’
    There was peppermint on his breath and his eyes were a twinkling blue.
    ♦
    The interior smelt faintly of disinfectant. Music was playing somewhere, somebody’s stereo, just the bass clearly audible. Movement. The sound of television or maybe radio. Clatter of cutlery being laid. Voices raised in anger, shrill laughter and then quiet. Higher up in the house, someone using a vacuum cleaner.
    ‘Come on,’ Gribbens said, moving towards the stairs. ‘I’ll show you to your room, give you a little time to settle in. Then I expect you wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. And we can have a little chat.’
    The room was on the second floor, high-ceilinged, square; there were single beds on opposite sides, a wardrobe in dark wood, embossed at the centre and deeply scarred, twin chests of drawers. The window was barred.
    ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Gribbens said, following Donald’s gaze. ‘All the windows were like that when we moved in, the upstairs ones at least.’ A suggestion of a laugh. ‘It’s not to keep you in.’
    One bed was made but not too evenly, a few possessions clustered near it, magazines and an alarm clock on a straight-backed chair.
    ‘Your room-mate is Royal. Royal Jeavons. He’s been with us almost two months. He’ll show you the ropes.’
    Royal, Donald was thinking, black then, got to be.
    Gribbens retreated to the door.
    ‘Come down just as soon as you’re ready. My office is on the ground floor, across from where we came in. My name’s on the door.’
    Donald sat down on his bed and stared at the floor.
    ♦
    Peter Gribbens’s office was long and narrow, one of several which had been partitioned off from a larger room. One wall was dominated by a chart, names and dates in different