The Fury(45)

Easy to see why, looking back. Never mind that he wasn’t a very good actor—too self-conscious and too unnatural—he wasn’t handsome enough to stand out in the crowd. He had a ragamuffin look, more unkempt with each passing day.

Not that he could see this at the time. If he had, he might have swallowed his pride, gone home with his tail between his legs—and come to much less grief.

As it was, the kid reassured himself success was just around the corner. He just had to tough it out for a while longer, that’s all.

Unfortunately he soon ran out of what little money he had. He was now penniless and kicked out of the youth hostel in King’s Cross where he’d been staying.

That’s when things got really bad, really fast.

You wouldn’t think it, now it’s gentrified and cleaned up—all gleaming steel and exposed brick—but back then, my God, King’s Cross was rough. A shadowy place, full of danger—a Dickensian underworld, populated by drug dealers, prostitutes, and homeless kids.

It makes me shudder now, to think of him there, alone, so spectacularly ill-equipped to survive. He was now destitute, and sleeping on benches in parks—until his luck changed, during a rainstorm, when he found refuge in Euston Cemetery.

He climbed over the wall into the graveyard, looking for shelter. He discovered, along one side of the church, a subterranean bunker—a dug-out concrete space—big enough for two or three people to lie down comfortably. Well, as comfortable as you can get in an empty crypt—for that’s what it was. But it provided a level of protection. For the kid, this was a minor miracle.

He was a little unhinged, by this point. He was hungry, scared, paranoid—and increasingly cut off from the world. He felt dirty, like he stank—he probably did—and he didn’t like getting too close to people.

But he was desperate—and so he did some things for money that he—

No, I can’t bring myself to write about that.

I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be coy. I’m sure you have a few things you’d rather not tell me about. We all have a skeleton or two in our closet—so to speak. Let this be mine.

The first time he did it, he felt entirely disassociated and blanked it out, as if it were happening to someone else.

The second time it was much worse; so he shut his eyes and thought of the madwoman who lived on the church steps, shouting at passersby to fling themselves into the arms of Jesus. He imagined throwing himself into Jesus’s arms, and being saved. But somehow salvation felt a long way off.

Afterward, feeling overwhelmed and afraid, the kid sat up all night until dawn; clutching a cup of coffee in Euston Station. Trying not to think, trying not to feel.

He sat there through the early-morning rush hour—a depressed waif, ignored by the sea of commuters. He counted the minutes until the pubs opened, and he could get a drink.

Finally, the dingy pub across the road opened its doors, offering sanctuary for the lost and disheartened.

The kid went inside and sat at the bar. He paid cash for a vodka—it was the first time he had ever tasted vodka, come to think of it. He knocked it back, wincing as it burned in his throat.

Then he heard a husky voice at the end of the bar:

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a shithole like this?”

This was—on reflection—the first, and last, compliment she ever paid him.

The kid looked up, and there was Barbara West. A lined older woman, dyed-red hair, an excess of mascara. She had the darkest, most piercing eyes he had ever seen; penetrating, brilliant, and scary.

Barbara laughed—a distinctive laugh, a throaty cackle. She laughed easily, he discovered, mostly at her own jokes. The kid would grow to hate her laugh. But that day, he merely felt indifferent. He shrugged—and tapped his empty glass in answer to her question.

“What’s it look like?”

Barbara took the hint, nodding at the barman. “Give him another, Mike. Me, too, while you’re at it. Doubles.”

Barbara had gone to the pub that morning direct from signing books in the Waterstones bookshop next door—because she was an alcoholic. Character is fate; and without Barbara’s need for a gin and tonic at 11:00 A.M., she and the kid would never have met. They were from two different worlds, those two. And were destined, in the end, only to cause each other harm.

They had a couple more drinks. Barbara kept her eyes on him the whole time, sizing him up. She liked what she saw. After one more drink for the road, she called a cab. She took the kid home with her.

It was only meant to be for one night. But one night led to another, and another—and he never left.

Yes, Barbara West used him, taking advantage of this desperate child in his hour of need. She was indeed a predator; even if, unlike her alcoholism, this was not immediately apparent. She was one of the darkest human beings I ever encountered. I dread to think what she would have done with her life if she hadn’t had a knack for writing novels.

But let’s not underestimate the kid, here. He understood perfectly well what he was getting into. He knew what Barbara wanted, and he was happy to supply it. If anything, he got the better deal. In return for his services, he received not only a roof over his head—but an education, which he needed just as urgently.

In that house in Holland Park, he had access to a private library. A world full of books. “Can I read one?” he said, staring at them in awe.