'I'm calling about the toolkit,' I say.

'Oh,' says the woman, 'we've found it. It was left in the toilets.'

'Right, I'll be in to collect it then.'

'I'll keep it out the back.'

'Okay.'

'You might want to keep a closer eye on it in future,' she says. I hang up.

At eight, I go to Welkin's room, knock on his door.

'Come in!' he shouts.

I go in, but leave the door open behind me.

'Take a seat,' he says, 'and close the door.'

He's sitting on the bed by the left-hand wall.

'Has Flindall come back yet?' I say.

'He's decided to stay in London. He's not coming back.'

'What about his things?'

'Bridget's having it all sent down. His new firm's going to pay for it all. And they've given him a three-bed flat right near Green Park.'

'Right,' I say.

He picks the bottle of whisky up from the floor and pours me a gla.s.s.

'Take a seat,' he says.

I don't sit, but take the gla.s.s.

He pats the s.p.a.ce next to him on the bed.

'I can't stay long,' I say. 'I've got to go out and meet somebody.'

'You don't look like you want to be here at all,' he says.

'Yeah, I do. But I've got to go soon.'

'Maybe we should do this another time then?'

'Maybe.'

'Oh, f.u.c.k it,' he says. 'Stay a while, Patrick.'

He sounds like he means it, like he wants my company, and I hate myself for being flattered.

'I'm sorry, but I can't tonight,' I say.

I take a sip of whisky, then hand back the gla.s.s.

He's got a gla.s.s in each hand now and he holds up both gla.s.ses and brings them together.

'Cheers,' he says. 'Bottoms up!'

He downs the whisky from both gla.s.ses.

He's smiling, but doesn't look happy.

I've got to admit I'm a lot more relaxed in his company now he's not so c.o.c.ky.

'All right,' he says. 'Tomorrow night.'

'Sorry about tonight,' I say.

'Never mind. I'm sure I'll find something to do.'

'What about your girlfriend?'

'I'm rather in the mood for some male company tonight,' he says. 'Maybe a game of poker, maybe blackjack. That's the mood I'm in.'

I'm a reasonable poker player and there's a good chance I'd beat the pants off him.

'Okay,' I say. 'Maybe I could come back later. This thing I have to do, it'll only take an hour or so.'

His face lights up.

'All right. It's a date. I'll be here. I'll wait for you.'

A bus pulls away from the nearest stop. I make a run for it and the driver sees me and, even though he's a good fifty yards from the stop, he pulls over.

I get on. 'Thanks,' I say.

But he doesn't even look at me, only takes my coins and gives me the ticket.

He's an old bloke, about sixty, and he's got a tattoo on the back of his neck. Strange how when someone does a kind or good thing you expect them to be chatty and cheerful and not have tattoos.

'Anyway, thanks,' I say.

I sit down the back and can't keep my eyes off the driver. This old woman gets on and she's slow dragging her trolley up the steps and the driver shakes his head at her like he wouldn't mind speeding off and leaving her on the street.

It doesn't make any sense why he stopped for me and I get tight in my chest with the frustration of watching him and not having any idea what makes a man like that tick. I get to thinking the world would be a better place without the likes of him.

I get off outside the train station and go round to the pub. '

What can I get you?' says the barmaid.

She's much nicer to look at than I thought she'd be from the sound of her voice.

'I've come about the toolkit.'

'Oh yeah, you were the one on the phone.'

She yells for a man called Joe and he comes from behind the bar. He's middle-aged and bald, probably her husband. He's got a thick gold wedding ring on just like hers.

'All right?' he says.

They're both from up north.

'I'll get it for you now,' says the barmaid.

While we wait, Joe washes gla.s.ses and I peel the paper off a beer mat. The barmaid brings the kit. She carries it in one hand as though it weighs nothing.

'You're right lucky, you are.'

She laughs and her laughter sounds like coughing. 'I know.'

'It were found in the last cubicle,' she says, 'squeezed between the wall and the cistern.'

I open the kit on the bar and check to see that everything's there.

'Right,' I say.

'You're dead lucky it weren't nicked,' says Joe.

'I know.'

'Are you stopping for a drink?' says the barmaid.

'No, I've got to meet somebody.'

'That's too bad. Maybe another time?'

'He might come back and fix some of the plumbing,' Joe tells her.

He's wearing one of those thin white shirts with silver lines running through it, like my father wears when he goes to work and, just like my father, his nipples show through.

'Maybe,' I say. 'But I'm not a plumber. I'm a mechanic.'

They both laugh.

I go home.

I'm looking forward to a drink and a game of cards with Welkin. I think tonight, when it's just the two of us, and him being in the humbler mood he's in, things might work out, and the chat might be friendly and straightforward.

I go upstairs and knock on his door.

There's no answer, but the door's not locked. I go ahead and open it. He's not in, but the bottle of whisky's on the draining board and it's near empty.

I go back to my room and wait.

About ten minutes later, he comes up the stairs.

I give him a minute to get to his room, then I go back out.

I knock, but he doesn't answer.

I try the handle. It's locked.

I call his name a few times, but he's not answering. I go downstairs.

There's no sign of Bridget and her office door's locked. I try the kitchen door. It's open and I go in. She's not there.

I help myself to a few slices of thick white crusty bread and a lump of cheese, go to the sitting room and get a newspaper, then take the food and newspaper up to my room.

I get into bed, eat and read, get drowsy right away.

Somebody's knocking on the door.

I check the alarm clock on the headboard. It's half-midnight.

'Patrick? It's Ian. May I come in?'

I get up, put my shirt and trousers on, open the door, switch on the light.

'Did I wake you?'

He's wearing his dressing-gown and he's got bare feet. He's pretty drunk, not legless, but drunk all the same.

'Yeah.'

'Sorry.'

He comes in, walks right by me and sits on my bed.

I cross the room, open the window and sit at the table.

'How are you?' he says.

'I'm not too bad.'

'I hope you don't mind my barging in like this.'