Joseph took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Edward.

“It’s good to see you smiling.”

Edward drew on the cigar and quickly felt even more light-headed. “Feels like I haven’t had much to smile about recently.”

“What do you mean?

“Life could be better.”

“Money?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t complain,” he said, “the job at the garage has been good, it’s made a difference, but I could certainly do with more. You always can, can’t you? And your Aunt is right––I can’t help thinking the government has forgotten about us––either that or it doesn’t care.”

Joseph looked dead straight at him. “What if I said I had a way you could lay your hands on some money? Decent money? More than you could make with Ruby.”

Edward’s interest kindled. “Then I’d say I was keen to hear it.”

Joseph regarded him. Edward wondered if it wasn’t with something that looked like apprehension. “Do you have an open mind?”

Edward inhaled from the cigar. “As much as the next man.”

“You wanted to know how I could afford clobber like this.” He indicated his suit with a downwards brush of his fingers. “Nice cigars, a decent motor, a nice place in town.”

“You said the horses––”

“What if it was something else?”

“Like what?”

“If I tell you, you mustn’t rush to conclusions.”

“What, Joseph?”

He paused. “Me and the lads have been turning over houses.”

“Very bloody funny,” he said, feigning disbelief, because he knew that was what Joseph would expect.

“I’m not messing about, Doc.”

“Come on––”

“I’m serious. We’ve been at it since I got back.”

Joseph stared at him: his eyes were flinty, sombre, emotionless.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Edward exclaimed with as much indignation as he could manage.

“Don’t be like that––all sanctimonious! No-one suffers. The places we go after, they’re all high end. Classy. Not people like us, struggling to make ends meet, it’s the big boys––bankers, lawyers, professionals––and they’re all insured up to the eyeballs. We take what we want, they make their claim, the insurance company makes sure everything gets replaced. We don’t threaten no-one, no-one loses out, no-one gets hurt.”

“Are you mad?” he said, playing the part as realistically as he could.

Joseph fell for Edward’s self-righteousness and pressed on, his conviction blending with anger. “What’s the alternative? Say you’re one of them poor beggars who finds a steady job. I pity them! Payments on the house, payments on the furniture, endowment policy, burial society. Burial society, Doc!––for fuck’s sake––they’re buried already.” He laughed with sudden cold derision. “Fucking burial society. I’ve got mates, blokes I know from The Hill, they’ve never had a house of their own, never had furniture of their own. They’ve got families, nippers, they can’t get credit, they get kicked out onto the street because they can’t pay their rent––a few pennies a week and they can’t even pay that. They’ve put everything in hock and now there’s nothing else, what the hell are they supposed to do?”

“That’s not the point, Joseph. It’s stealing.”

His tone hardened. “Fuck the law, Doc. Fuck it. We’re entitled. We gave this country years in that bloody jungle, we got eaten by leeches and shot up by the Tojos, and what do we get when we come home? A band playing God Save the bloody King, a cheap whistle that don’t even fit, a pat on the back and a quid. Thank you very much, boys, welcome home, now piss off. I ain’t having that. No, sir, I’m bloody well not––that just ain’t good enough. And if it means I have to spin a few drums to get what I reckon I deserve, that’s what I’m going to do.” He paused for a moment, the surge of annoyance subsiding. “I know you’re struggling, Doc. It’s obvious. I don’t like to see it, and there’s no need. And, to be honest, this ain’t what you’d call philanthropy. I could use your help––for planning and such like. That brain of yours––it could be a real asset. The better your plan, the less the chance that you’ll get your collar felt. What do you say?”

Edward assessed. “Who else is involved?”

Joseph nodded in the direction of the house. “The lads: Billy, Tommy and Jack.”

Edward chewed a nail as he stared out at the lake, the undulation as the wind brushed waves across the water, rain lashing into it. “I don’t know,” he said, pretending to hesitate.

Joseph took his arm urgently. “Come on, Doc,” he urged, “it’s easy––you force the door, you take what you want, you hop into a motor and you’re away. Hardly any risk if it’s done right. And we’re entitled.”

“Alright, Joseph. Don’t go on––I know.” He needed money. Why not this way? The money was as good as if he had earned it. How long could Jimmy keep the restaurant running without his help? A month? Maybe two? No longer than that, surely. What would happen afterwards? Jimmy would have to find something in another kitchen, a job working under someone else, but the loss would cripple him. And, more to the point, what about his father? What would they do if they asked him to leave the sanatorium? How could they cope? It would be the end of him, Edward was quite sure of that. It wasn’t what he had in mind but it could be a means to an end. It could be a start. A chance to bring himself closer to Joseph, to the family, and a way to identify and develop the real opportunities. The hesitation was all for Joseph’s benefit. Of course he was interested.

They stood there quietly, listening to the rain falling onto the water. Beneath them, a tethered rowing boat jostled against the jetty, a steady hollow thump. Edward rolled the cigar end against the balustrade.

“I’m thinking of doing one next week––Thursday or Friday,” Joseph said. “That gives us time to have a proper think about it. Sort out a plan.”

“I’d want to look at it. Look at the place, look at the area, make some suggestions.”

“That’s what I want,” he said enthusiastically. “Proper planning. That’s why I asked you.”

Edward stared into the night. He had started to think about how the job might be best carried out, how to minimise risk. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll have a look at it.”

* * *

THE VOICES OF PARTYGOERS who were smoking under his window drifted up distinctly as if they had been in the room with him, and the insistent, cackling laugh of one of them made Edward writhe and twitch. He imagined them talking about him, and how he had not fooled them, how he was different, how he did not fit in with the rest of the guests.

What was he doing here? However was he going to fit in with people like this?

He struggled out of bed, knowing he was going to be sick, the room wobbling as he negotiated it. He knelt before the toilet and brought up his dinner, spitting acrid-tasting phlegm into the bowl, his head hot and woozy. He went back to his bed and fell instantly asleep.

18

CHIARA COSTELLO DID NOT SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT. She could not settle: her head throbbed from the drink, her mouth was dry and sticky and her mind spun with the memories of the party. She had known that her Aunt would insist that there was an event to mark her twenty-first birthday, and she had been dreading it. She was not an ostentatious girl and did she crave the spotlight. Quite the reverse, she would have been much happier to mark the milestone with a quiet meal with her family and a trip to the theatre. Violet would never have allowed that. She was her niece’s exact obverse. Everything was about image and appearance, and a birthday was all the excuse she needed to throw a lavish party. Chiara had protested when she learned how big the party was going to be but Violet had brushed her concerns aside. “Think of it as your coming out,” she had said, patting her on the hand. “If they do it in Chelsea, darling, we’re fucking well doing it here, too.”