A Quid Pro Quo

With Declan, everything came back to supply and demand, but Abel
always did basements; and he didn't like to deliver junk mail the whole
summer.

He had bad days in wintertime too; especially on freezing, clammy
mornings when he left the lockup after his morning row with Declan. He
felt like a slug with his foul breath and grimy body, and as he made
his way to the underground he hunched his shoulders and flinched at
every gust of wind.

He'd still be grumbling to himself an hour or so later when has he
reached his patch and started work, swearing almost automatically at
letterboxes scrunching his leaflets and gates that fell of their
hinges. Presently, he fell into a rhythm that was almost comforting. Up
and down garden paths and rotting stairways piled with rubbish. And
always; always the possibility that this was the day he'd miss his
footing and be suddenly airborne, with that dreadful consciousness that
he was helpless as to how he hit the hard, cold, slimy, concrete
bottom.

Abel always did basements.

Declan understood leaflets and he knew why Abel always did basements;
not that he would have admitted it, any more than he would have
admitted needing Abel to go for a drink with occasionally.

"It simply don't pay my sahn!" he said. "I woz watching you breaking
your neck the other day. D'you fink I pay facking insurance?"

It was because Declan understood leaflets that he always got the
maximum amount of work from Abel for the least amount of money. When
he'd pushed Abel too far, he'd stand him a pint or two at the Grub and
Gherkin.

"Supply and demand my sahn! That's wot it's all ahaht. Makes the
facking world go round. What I mean to say, Lav' you like a bruv an'
all that but I ought to get one o' them Kossovan refugees to do it at
nine quid a thousand!

"No offence," he added pleasantly.

When you rented a squalid room in a house that stank of cat piss it was
good to sit on imitation leather upholstery for an hour or two and be
surrounded by reasonably pleasant smelling people. Even Declan himself,
with aftershave and tattoos, his Elvis sideburns and his QVC jewellery
seemed to hint of something better.

"So why don't you?" Abel asked, knowing full well that his job was safe
if anyone's was.

But Declan was already off on another tack. "You and me want to get one
o' them eyemacs with Windows 2000. Internet business! That's the future
my sahn!"

"So what would we sell?" Abel asked.

Gawd give me strength, what do I keep telling you?" Declan clutched his
head with both hands, making a great display of self control. "Supply
and demand! All you got to do is find something the punters want and
sell it on that Yahoo search engine thingy."

It wasn't a bad feeling to let the beer go to your head and half
believe to Declan's bullshit. And it had to be true in a way. Abel
couldn't remember the time before he'd worked for Declan or moved in
with his landlady. Yet he knew in his bones that what he did was
temporary; just to tide him over until&;#8230;.

"I mean it! Us two, six months from now, cruising up to Stingfellows in
a convertible. Couple of facking fanny magnets!"

Yet for all that Declan understood Abel and he understood leaflets. He
knew the difference between delivering two bits of junk mail and
delivering three. He knew he was taking the piss when he sent Abel to
Wimbledon or up and down marble staircases in Holland Park. And what's
more, he knew that however much Abel grumbled, he'd never dump his
leaflets or go home before his pack was empty.

Abel usually worked off most of his anger by lunchtime, and as his body
warmed and his pack lightened he started to feel as if what he was
doing was almost natural. Sometimes; if the streets weren't too
confusing and there was a bit of blue in the sky, he felt almost
euphoric, as if he was a wild animal let loose over a vast territory
that was his alone; that nobody minded because it consisted of the dull
areas between living rooms and jobs and pubs and high streets. Great
swathes of Victorian terraces that went on for miles, varying only in
the state of their gardens and the accents of their occupants.
Monstrous housing estates whose sheer scale and audacity was more than
a match the boarded up windows and the smell of bad mackerel. Sometimes
he became almost manic, wanting to conquer more and more of this
endless terrain.

Then suddenly, when he least expected it, he'd reach inside his pack
and find it almost empty. Then he'd think longingly of his bedroom. He
wouldn't bother going into the living room at all tonight, he resolved.
He'd go to the Chippy on the way home; then he'd go straight to his
room and lock his door and spend the evening looking at the pictures in
his library books; safely snuggled under the his blankets with his
knees drawn up to his chin.

Abel's landlady was frumpy and bovine. She smelt of school stew and of
having not long got up. The stew came from a cauldron that was kept
constantly on a low heat; and from which she ladled herself a bowl from
time to time as she slumped in front of the telly in her dressing gown.
There was a remote control under the cushions somewhere, but he'd never
seen her try to retrieve it.

Presumably they'd quarrelled once, but she never gave him any clues,
and it would have been from the time before Abel could remember. She
hardly ever spoke to Abel, except to have a go at him for slamming the
door or leaving his pack in the hallway. But then again, she'd never
tried to evict him or put the rent up. Abel for his part didn't mention
the heating and the brown peeling wallpaper.

Cold and loneliness always drove Abel downstairs into the living room.
He'd come in apologetically, as if he'd lost something and then
suddenly be arrested by what was on the TV. After standing irresolutely
for a few minutes, he'd sit gingerly on the arm of the sofa. The
landlady ignored him, neither telling him to go or inviting him to sit
down properly. Sometimes she waddled off for another bowl of watery
stew. He felt nauseated by her, yet unable to leave the imitation log
fire and the small tang of scent that struggled to make it past her
sweaty body and dressing gown as if saying; "yes, I know I'm repulsive
but I'm still a woman and not completely dried up and withered".

.**********

"I mean one way or another it's all prozzies innit! Look at that suit
at the corner table with his tart. Slaving all week in some stuffy
office and coming home to a house full of screaming kids and all for
what? A bit of nookie on a Sunday afternoon."

It was when Declan applied his economic theories to women that Abel
felt uncomfortable.

"Supply and demand my sahn. That's all there is to it! I mean, you
could always give that miserable cow of yours a poke, gawd knows she
needs it; but I guarantee she'll 'ave the rent up within a week. Don't
blame 'er neither. Bloke wants nookie. Bird wants a few readies to line
'er next. It's all part of mavver nature's plan my sahn ."

Declan sat back triumphantly after his little monologue. Abel wanted to
punch him without knowing why.

"Nah, you take my advice and go to a proper prozzie. Cheaper in the
long run; and you won't 'ave to put a bag over 'er head while yer doin'
it.

Abel had been to a prostitute once. He always cringed when he
remembered how he'd asked to kiss her and she'd politely refused.

**********

Abel didn't like to work the whole summer.

It could start with the first few mild sunny days when people noticed
the daffodils for the first time. If his pack wasn't to heavy and there
weren't too many steps to climb he might feel his step lighten; and
find that he could hum a tune without his walkman.

As the spring grew warmer as he found himself spending long days under
blue skies in suburbs full of flowers and greenery. That was when he
started to feel he was remembering and tried to the time before he'd
quarrelled with his landlady; when he knew how to think things through
and make plans.
Sometimes he sat down on a park bench to try and work the whole thing
out. Invariably, he nodded off and woke up groggy an hour later. When
the longing became unbearable he'd start thinking of the pictures of
the countryside in his library books.

This year, he promised himself, he wasn't going to work the whole
summer. Come June he'd take the Northern line to Brent Cross and hitch
a ride up the M1.

Abel generally threw his wobbler, in July when it was in the
mid-eighties and you needed a litre an hour just to keep going. Maybe
Declan had given him four different leaflets or sent him to the Suburb
once to often. .

Abel would walk to the door, grumbling as usual. Then he'd turn around
suddenly and dump the leaflets all over the garage floor.

"That's it!" he'd shout uncertainly, already beginning to lose his
bottle. "You can stuff your fucking job"

"So you don't want any wages then?" Declan would ask cheerfully.
Business was always slack in August anyway.

Then he'd count out a wad of notes and put a protective arm around
Abel's frail shoulders. "Ere, you dan a good job so I've put in a bit
extra/ Retention fee, comprendez? Take it easy and come back in a
fortnight.

Abel never did last the fortnight. He'd appear shamefaced back at the
lockup a few days later. One year he'd actually made it to Brent Cross
but lost his nerves when he came out of the underground found himself
in the middle of all the flyovers.

Then one year, on a sunny day in May, Declan pulled himself a
bird.

He took Abel to the Grub and Gherkin to show her off. She had sallow,
greasy skin and dyed blong hair. She chain smoked and when she spoke to
Abel she clutched his sleeve soupily, breathing gin and cigarette
smoke.

She got up and started dancing listlessly to the juke box.

"Duty calls" boasted Declan, belching, before going over to her and
enveloping her in his arms. As they swayed mechanically to and fro, he
winked over her shoulder at Abel.

It was hot that summer, and the workload seemed to increase with the
heat; all sorts of jobs that Declan normally turned down. "I'm working
for two now" he grumbled boastfully, before sending Abel to Chertsey or
Boreham Wood.

It might be gone eleven when he got home. He'd be too knackered to
shower and too hot and restless to sleep. He'd toss and turn and pace
up and down his room like a caged animal. When his landlady banged on
the door he'd sit on the bed clutching his forehead; desperately
groping for a thought that would take him out of his confusion.

They only went for a drink once, and Declan acted all superior, as if
he'd just lost his virginity. "Anyway, I don't know what you're
grambling abaht. It's me that's got to run the facking business.. That
Cheryl's costing me an arm and a leg".

"You ought to go to real prozzie", Abel smirked. "Much cheaper in the
long run".

"You wanna wotch yerself." Declan warned him. "I got one o' them Kurds
lined up from Chechneya or somewhere. Begging for your job. Says e'll
do it for eight quid a thousand."

Abel knew he was doing more work and getting less money for it; that he
was getting madder and madder and that Declan was sending him further
and further away; almost as if there was something he didn't want him
to see. Suddenly everything slotted into place. .

**********

"So this is where you hang out while I work my balls off?"

"Anything wrong?" asked Declan, in mild surprise. "I thought you'd 'ave
done half of Ongar by now; Sorry, it was Amersham I sent you, wasn't
it?".

Cheryl was sitting on his knee pouting when Abel marched into the Grub
and Gherkin. She glanced up at him mournfully like a child sucking a
lollipop.

"I want my money!" Abel said "All of it!"

"Beg pardon?" said Declan non-conmittally before pointedly ignoring him
to take a puff at Cheryl's cigarette.

It was Declan's complete lack of embarrassment that infuriated
him

"I said I'm pissing off and I want my fucking money!" Abel shouted,
bringing his fist down on the table.

"I'm sorry darling. Don't know what's got into 'im. Must 'ave got up on
the wrong side of the bed!"

Declan affectionately dislodged Cheryl from his knee and got up,
wearily.
"Don't be long darling;" she said pleadingly, glancing pointedly at
Abel. Declan boredly gave her another cuddle, evidently thinking it was
the right thing to do.

Abel and Cheryl both stared at the floor while he was out at the cash
point. As his courage subsided, Abel began to feel stupid, and his
stomach gave a lurch every time the doors opened.

Declan came back from the cash point and banged a pile of tens and
twenties on the table.

"Right! here's you're money. You're fired! Now piss off!"

"Abel counted the notes nervously, not wanting to look up at Declan.
When it was wrong he had half a mind to say nothing.

"What about my&;#8230; you know"

"No I don't facking know!"

"My you know&;#8230;.my retention fee!"

"You're what!" Declan sounded incredulous, as if Abel had just told him
he belonged to a union. "I've told you. You and me's finito! Kaput!
Comprendez? Now piss off!Before&;#8230;&;#8230;"

"Darling, you've given him his money. Can't you make him go away?" came
a now familiar whine.

Abel turned round to face her.

."So it's you I've been working my bollocks off for!" he yelled
suddenly. "Like a bit of rough do you?" Abel was screaming now. He was
even madder with Cheryl than he was with Declan. She tried to look away
but he slapped his pile of notes down on the table in front of
her.

"Come on then, how many of these do you want before I fuck the arse off
you?"

"Right, that's it!"

Abel felt a hand grip his collar and was aware of Declan getting up to
land him one. After that everything seemed obvious; as if he'd known
all along what to do. The pint over Declan's head, Cheryl's screams,
the upturned table that sent Declan staggering and glasses smashing on
the floor and leaflets everywhere..

"I do basements!" Abel stood towering over Declan, screaming
hysterically. "I always do fucking basements and I want my fucking
retention fee! You fucking got that?"

Declan looked up at Abel from where he lay sprawled; the lager soaking
his hair and trickling down into his eyes. Suddenly he started giggling
hysterically.

"I've got meself a Romanian" he spluttered. "One o' them Gyppos. Sez
e'll work for six quid a thousand. Told 'im 'e could start
temorrer!".

As Abel walked to the door, he didn't need to turn around to know that
Cheryl had turned on the waterworks.

It felt strangely disconcerting coming home in the middle of the day,
but he knew what he was going to do. He made straight for the living
room where his landlady was already slumped in front of the telly.
Then, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he plonked
himself on the sofa

His landlady made no protest as he searched the cushions behind her
back for the remote contol.

Afterwards, he felt a bit repulsed at what they'd done together. He
longed to be back in his room, where he could go over his conquest away
from the smells and secretions that now nauseated him. Later that night
though, he stopped on his way to the bathroom and found her door
unlocked.

In the morning he took the Northern Line to Brent Cross, walked down
the North Circular to the M1 and took his place in line of people on
the slipway. By the time he lost his nerve he was speeding past
Scratchwood.

**********

It was still summer when he returned, but the bottom had dropped out of
the heat and there was a chill in the air at night. He'd stuck out the
fortnight; give or take a day, sleeping in barns or under bridges and
wandering around the countryside more or less at random. The places he
walked in weren't the same as in his library books, not most of the
time anyway. Flat, dank fields a lot of it, littered with TV masts and
electricity pylons under dull, muggy skies.

When he was tired of walking about he thumbed lifts. He hitched
aimlessly, trying to relive the thrill when the first driver had pulled
over for him. He never quite abandoned the hope that the next driver
drop him somewhere beautiful, like in his library books; or at least
different, so that he might escape once more from his frustration and
confusion.

And there were one or two moments he'd embellish on so that when winter
came he could kid himself he'd had a good time. Once after a storm, he
looked into a clear, moonlit sky and forgot that he was soaked and
shivering; overwhelmed by how bright the stars were and how lonely and
peaceful and vast the night was.

Then there was that day when the air suddenly seemed fresher and more
invigorating. He could feel awarmth on his back as the sun came out
from behind a cloud. As the lane wound uphill he noticed for the first
time how lush the grass was and that there were wild flowers
everywhere. The overhead telegraph wires seemed to hum and vibrate in
anticipation as if a train was coming. Then the lane petered out into a
footpath that wound it's way through purple heather. There was a full
breeze blowing now and when he looked back he could see for miles.
Fields and meadows and toy villages connected by narrow, snaking roads
on which motor vehicles reflected the sunlight like pinpricks.

The breeze blew stronger all the time and he could hear gulls calling
to one another. He felt he wanted to go on and on. Further and higher;
over the open moor land with the wind in his face and the rhythmic
pounding drew him ever forward and upward.

And then he was there; looking straight over the sheer cliff edge and
marvelling at the sheer power of the waves that crashed relentlessly on
the rocks hundreds of feet below. When he lifted his eyes and saw the
shimmering expanse of blue that stretched away to the horizon, he knew
his wandering days were over and that it was time to go home.

He lingered on the headland for a while, feeling relief and
disappointment. Gulls screeched and circled overhead, as if both
welcoming and mocking him at the same time. Then, instinctively his
eyes moved along the cliff face, as if looking for a path down to the
sea.

Abel always did basements.

**********

Somebody had given Abel's room an airing while he'd away. There was a
faint smell of paint and a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. On his
bedside table was a brand new rent book.

Next day Abel turned up at the lockup and Declan sorted him out for
leaflets. Very soon it was as if nothing had happened. Maybe Abel
grumbled a bit less, but then Declan didn't take the piss as much.
Sometimes in the evening he'd rush home and lock himself in his bedroom
with his library books, feeling wonderfully safe and secure. Other
times he'd sit on the sofa with his landlady and they'd watch the TV
together in silence. Occasionally, not too often; a soft tiptoeing
could be heard at night between his room and hers.

Declan and Abel still went to the Grub and Gherkin of an evening, and
Declan still rabbitted on about supply and demand. Then he'd be
reminded of Cheryl and falter in mid sentence.

They sat silently together, affecting to watch the other drinkers; two
men who knew too much about each other to be anything but equals.

"Birds, eh?" Declan leaned back and took a long, worldly-wise pull at
his pint; then he glanced benevolently round the bar and made a vague
disclaiming gesture with his right arm.

Presumably he'd worked out that Abel was fucking his landlady but in
his newly found delicacy he didn't ask how much she'd put the rent
up.