stairwell in clouds of ammonia and decay. April, trying to breathe through her mouth, wriggled inside the denim dress and knocked again.
‘Yeah?’ Mr Reynolds, wearing a dirty vest, dirtier trousers, and the sort of bad perm that Kevin Keegan had made his own in the seventies, peered through a crack in the door. ‘Oh, it’s you. I ain’t got no money.’
‘Please, Mr Reynolds.’ April smiled, which proved difficult when she’d stopped breathing. ‘Just something. Anything. Just enough to stop Mr Gillespie losing his temper . . .’
‘ ’E can lose ’is bleeding temper all ’e bleeding likes,’ Mr Reynolds affirmed vigorously. ‘I ain’t got no money.’
In danger of passing out, April sucked in some air. The waft of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed body emanating from Mr Reynolds made her gag. ‘Oh God – look – you owe so much. I can’t go away empty-handed again – and no, don’t even think about it. You’re not coming any damn closer . . .’
Mr Reynolds gave a hideous wink. ‘Pity. Nice little bit of skirt, you are. Dirty job for a pretty little thing like you . . . Tell you what – what if I gives you something you can sell? What about if I gives you something that’s worth even more than I owes old Oily? What do you say?’
April shook her head. She knew that Jix sometimes took electrical goods in lieu and sold them in the market to raise Oliver’s cash. She shrugged. ‘Well, maybe . . . but it’s got to be worth it. Not just some old tat.’
‘This ain’t no tat.’ Mr Reynolds gave a stumpy-toothed grin. ‘This’ll make old Olly’s eyes light up and no mistake.’ He closed the door. April, envisaging having to stagger down thirty-two floors carrying an armful of porn, somehow doubted that Oliver Gillespie would be exactly thrilled to ribbons with her business acumen.
‘’Ere.’ Mr Reynolds yanked the door open again. ‘Worth a fortune. That’s me sorted, then. Full and final. What do you think?’
What April thought was obviously irrelevant as Mr Reynolds had slammed the door again and started shooting bolts into place. April stared at the piece of dirty string in her hands, then at the animal attached to the other end.
‘Jesus.’
The greyhound blinked soft brown eyes at her and wagged a spindly brindled tail.
‘Mr Reynolds!’ April thundered on the door. ‘Mr Reynolds! I can’t take him!’
‘You’ve taken ’im!’ The voice echoed from the far side of the graffiti. ‘ ’E’s all yours! ’Is name’s Care Parallel. The castle thing. Out of that kids’ story. The lion in the wardrobe one.’
Cair Paravel, April thought wildly. Brilliant. One of her childhood favourite bedtime stories. She pulled herself up quickly. ‘I don’t care what his name is – I can’t take him! Mr Gillespie won’t want him and – ’
‘You take him home then. E’ll make a nice pet.’
‘I can’t take him home! I’m not allowed animals in my flat.’
‘Tough tit, love. You could train ’im on and win a fortune. Now bugger off – I’m busy!’
April looked down at the greyhound, who was happily licking between her toes. God Almighty. Jix would go mad. Not to mention Sebastian Gillespie, the killer landlord. Not only was there a no-pets clause in her tenancy agreement, there was also a no-children one. She’d managed to keep Beatrice-Eugenie a secret from the Gillespies for two and half years, but she’d never manage to keep a greyhound hidden in number 51 as well – would she?
Chapter Five
Jasmine stared at the trickle of people sifting through the rusty turnstiles, and felt a prickle of apprehension shifting along her spine. Would she ever, ever, be able to live up to her grandfather’s reputation?
‘Benny Clegg – The Punters’ Friend’: the signs still stood proudly beside her pile of upturned pallets and above her ancient blackboard. Having told Peg that she had no intention of changing the pitch’s name, Jasmine had thought that simply
‘Yeah?’ Mr Reynolds, wearing a dirty vest, dirtier trousers, and the sort of bad perm that Kevin Keegan had made his own in the seventies, peered through a crack in the door. ‘Oh, it’s you. I ain’t got no money.’
‘Please, Mr Reynolds.’ April smiled, which proved difficult when she’d stopped breathing. ‘Just something. Anything. Just enough to stop Mr Gillespie losing his temper . . .’
‘ ’E can lose ’is bleeding temper all ’e bleeding likes,’ Mr Reynolds affirmed vigorously. ‘I ain’t got no money.’
In danger of passing out, April sucked in some air. The waft of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed body emanating from Mr Reynolds made her gag. ‘Oh God – look – you owe so much. I can’t go away empty-handed again – and no, don’t even think about it. You’re not coming any damn closer . . .’
Mr Reynolds gave a hideous wink. ‘Pity. Nice little bit of skirt, you are. Dirty job for a pretty little thing like you . . . Tell you what – what if I gives you something you can sell? What about if I gives you something that’s worth even more than I owes old Oily? What do you say?’
April shook her head. She knew that Jix sometimes took electrical goods in lieu and sold them in the market to raise Oliver’s cash. She shrugged. ‘Well, maybe . . . but it’s got to be worth it. Not just some old tat.’
‘This ain’t no tat.’ Mr Reynolds gave a stumpy-toothed grin. ‘This’ll make old Olly’s eyes light up and no mistake.’ He closed the door. April, envisaging having to stagger down thirty-two floors carrying an armful of porn, somehow doubted that Oliver Gillespie would be exactly thrilled to ribbons with her business acumen.
‘’Ere.’ Mr Reynolds yanked the door open again. ‘Worth a fortune. That’s me sorted, then. Full and final. What do you think?’
What April thought was obviously irrelevant as Mr Reynolds had slammed the door again and started shooting bolts into place. April stared at the piece of dirty string in her hands, then at the animal attached to the other end.
‘Jesus.’
The greyhound blinked soft brown eyes at her and wagged a spindly brindled tail.
‘Mr Reynolds!’ April thundered on the door. ‘Mr Reynolds! I can’t take him!’
‘You’ve taken ’im!’ The voice echoed from the far side of the graffiti. ‘ ’E’s all yours! ’Is name’s Care Parallel. The castle thing. Out of that kids’ story. The lion in the wardrobe one.’
Cair Paravel, April thought wildly. Brilliant. One of her childhood favourite bedtime stories. She pulled herself up quickly. ‘I don’t care what his name is – I can’t take him! Mr Gillespie won’t want him and – ’
‘You take him home then. E’ll make a nice pet.’
‘I can’t take him home! I’m not allowed animals in my flat.’
‘Tough tit, love. You could train ’im on and win a fortune. Now bugger off – I’m busy!’
April looked down at the greyhound, who was happily licking between her toes. God Almighty. Jix would go mad. Not to mention Sebastian Gillespie, the killer landlord. Not only was there a no-pets clause in her tenancy agreement, there was also a no-children one. She’d managed to keep Beatrice-Eugenie a secret from the Gillespies for two and half years, but she’d never manage to keep a greyhound hidden in number 51 as well – would she?
Chapter Five
Jasmine stared at the trickle of people sifting through the rusty turnstiles, and felt a prickle of apprehension shifting along her spine. Would she ever, ever, be able to live up to her grandfather’s reputation?
‘Benny Clegg – The Punters’ Friend’: the signs still stood proudly beside her pile of upturned pallets and above her ancient blackboard. Having told Peg that she had no intention of changing the pitch’s name, Jasmine had thought that simply
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