Nocturne by Graham Hurley

has her price and Brendan had just named mine.
    He was standing up now, one hand extended.
    ‘ Shake on it? ’
    ‘ Deal. ’
    He held my hand a moment longer than necessary.
    ‘ One other thing. ’ No smile now. ‘ Can anyone ask you out to dinner, or do you have to be a Tory MP? ’
    I celebrated my promotion wit h a bottle of gin. I telephoned my mother, who was clueless about the small print but impressed by the money, and several friends, who reacted pretty much the same way. It was nearly ten o ’ clock before I ’ d finished boasting and I was looking at the bottle, wondering how I ’ d sunk so much Gordons, when I heard the ring at the street door.
    It was Gilbert. His hair was matted from the rain and his thin coat hung wetly on his gaunt frame. He was carrying a grey, oblong box with a handle. The box looked about the right size for his flute.
    ‘ You ’ ve been playing, ’ I said brightly. ‘ Come in. ’
    He stared at me for a moment. His other hand was in his jeans pocket, still rummaging for something.
    ‘ I can ’ t find them, ’ he said at last. I definitely had them earlier. ’
    ‘ Keys? ’
    ‘ Yes. ’
    I stood back, holding the front door open, letting him in. On impulse, as he headed for the stairs, I called him back. I was having a little celebration. Would he like a gin and tonic? He stopped at once, curiously obedient, and when he turned round and I saw the expression on his face it was suddenly clear to me what I should do. This man was a child. He needed direction. He needed reassurance. I should have known all along.
    ‘ Come on, ’ I said, ‘ it won ’ t do you any harm. ’
    In the kitchen, I made him take his coat off. I hung it on the back of the door, spreading yesterday ’ s copy of the Guardian to catch the drips. Gilbert had sunk onto one of the kitchen chairs. His hands were blue with cold but he looked cheerful enough and when I asked him again about the flute he said yes, he ’ d been playing in a little restaurant down in Stoke Newington, a newly opened place called Colcannon ’ s that specialised in Irish cuisine.
    ‘ Your idea, ’ he said.
    ‘ Mine? ’
    ‘ Yes, you told me I should do it professionally. In fact you insisted. You said it was really important. So I thought, why not? ’
    He told me how nervous he ’ d been. He ’ d read about the restaurant in the paper but it had taken him days to muster the courage even to lift the phone. The woman at the other end had been nice enough though, and he ’ d played for free that first night, a kind of voluntary audition.
    ‘ And you ’ re going back? ’
    ‘ Maybe. ’
    ‘ Why only maybe? ’
    ‘ I don ’ t know. I ’ ll see how I feel. ’
    ‘ Does she want you back? ’
    ‘ Yes, ’ he nodded vigorously. ‘ Oh, yes. ’
    He seemed pleased, knotting his hands together, and watching him I was glad I ’ d let the conversation develop, determined not to interpret what he ’ d said as any kind of threat. Of course I hadn ’ t insisted he get a job. Why should I? But perhaps this pretence of his that I had was his way of saying sorry. He ’ d intruded. He ’ d overstepped the mark. And now he was trying to make amends.
    I fetched him a glass, splashing in more gin than I ’ d intended, and he pre-empted my next question by opening his instrument case and taking out the flute. The jig he played me was unusual, a ja u ntiness suffused with something altogether more plaintive, and the end result was one of those long silences it ’ s difficult to break. At length, he asked me about the cassette. Had I listened to it? Did I understand?
    I studied him a moment, remembering the face on the stairs, the glimpse I thought I ’ d had of the real Gilbert. Children, above all, prefer the truth.
    ‘ It puzzled me, ’ I said. ‘ And it disturbed me as well. ’
    ‘ You didn ’ t follow it? ’
    ‘ It ’ s not that. It ’ s the fact that you left it in the first place. That you stayed here. While I