Part 8 (1/2)
”Sir.” Khan looked at Jayce, then at the hard-faced men behind the counter. ”He called me 'sir'. I like this boy. I asked” his eyes became large, focused on Richard ”if you like Fatboy Slim. We're talking cla.s.sic here. None of your modern din.”
”Um, yes. I do. Like it.”
”Good.”
The red box, when Khan handed it over, fitted in Richard's palm.
”And I'll pay you now, since I trust you.” Khan gave Jayce a boiled sweet wrapped in cellophane: that was what it looked like. ”You know what would happen if you know, don't you?”
”Yes, Mr Khan. Thank you.”
The music changed to Kids in Gla.s.s Houses, who Mrs Kovac liked to play in the kitchen while she was cooking, except that she was in his old life, where everything was clean and rich, taken for granted until now.
I'm so hungry.
But Jayce was leaving the shop. Richard hurried after, clutching the box, feeling acid pain inside. Could a stomach dissolve itself for lack of food?
This was so hard.
Out on the street, beyond the next corner, they stopped. Jayce took the ”sweet” out of his pocket, and undid the cellophane a little, revealing caked green powder. It reminded Richard of the orange ammonium dichromate used in cla.s.s to build a volcano, turning green and spewing everywhere when set alight. He thought about trying to explain chemical volcanoes to Jayce; instead he asked about the powder.
”You don't want to be trying this.” Jayce dabbed some onto his tongue, and his eyes darkened. ”Not till you need to.”
”What do you mean?”
”Nothing. Let's get you fed.”
”We have to be at this college by ten to eight.”
”Plenty of time. What time is it now?”
”I don't... I lost my phone.”
”Probably why the Bill ain't picked you up. Come on.”
Soon they were at a ramshackle establishment, once a furniture store, from the faded signs. From round back, the aroma of tomato soup and toast was overwhelming. Cracked doors, horizontal across piles of bricks, served as tables. Plastic chairs, with the frozen bubbles of burn marks, were set out in the yard. Some fifteen or twenty people, shabby-looking, were queuing for soup.
”No one asks no questions,” said Jayce. ”Why we come, ain't it?”
There were ham sandwiches and Bovril crisps as well as soup and toast, an explosion of taste and sensation in Richard's mouth. Nothing had ever been like this: flavourfilled, urgent, seeping into his body through his tongue.
”Am I supposed to be getting paid?” The words just came out. ”For the... you know.”
”Would you have found this place by yourself?”
”Uh...”
”So, you've been paid, intya?”
Richard shook his head, then wiped the last of his bread round inside the soup cup, soaking up the last of it.
”All right, look,” continued Jayce. ”I'll see you all right afterward. We... never mind.”
A big woman was standing next to Richard. ”Did anyone explain that we don't ask questions?”
Richard nodded.
”So we don't, but if someone wants to talk, we listen. And you” she thrust out a green sweats.h.i.+rt ”need to put on an extra layer. Sorry we've no blankets tonight.”
”Er... thank you.”
”Uh-huh.” She watched him a moment, gave a mouth movement that might have been anything, then walked away.
”Do-gooders,” muttered Jayce.
”What?” Richard pulled on the sweats.h.i.+rt. ”What do you mean?”
”Feel sorry for you one minute, suck you into the machine the next.”
”Machine?”
”The system. The thing thing, man.”
”Oh. Right.”
”Like teachers, like bosses, like yer fat cats in banks, telling you what to do.”
”So what if we don't go to the college tonight, like Mr Khan said?”
”You crazy, Richie-boy? You don't let him down.”
There was a contradiction there, invisible to Jayce. But so far being smart had not helped Richard at all; while Jayce with his teeth that looked covered in lichen, his breath stinking, survived.
”How long have you been here? On the streets?”
Some of the others were looking at them.
”Come on.” Jayce kicked Richard's ankle. ”Let's get gone.”
Some time later, walking along a street of graffiti-tagged houses, Richard felt his bowels s.h.i.+fting.
”Uh... Jayce?”