Wildcard

PART EIGHT - Saturday, 22nd October (iii)

Jake sat in the wet bus shelter and mulled over his options.

As far as he could see – which wasn't very far at all, considering he was blind – he had only two.

The first was to accept free accommodation in the detective's basement rooms until he was strong enough for the long journey to Brighton. The second was to flee to the tunnels under Piccadilly Train Station, freeing himself from Ryan's wildly incompatible idea of what made a comfortable home ...

For a start, where was all the clutter? Where were the dirty pots, crates of bric-a-brac, half-finished coffee mugs and unwashed laundry?

Ryan had made him a coffee in his own accommodation upstairs, then afforded him a guided tour of the basement, and it certainly hadn't been a dungeon. The cosy lounge boasted a sofa and TV, and the shower room had a neat stack of towels. The small kitchen area contained a microwave, kettle, fridge and hob. And beyond had been a bedroom with French windows that opened.

"You didn't tell me there was a terrace," he'd shouted up the stairs once Ryan had gone to get changed.

"There are steps at the f-far end that go up to a patio area," Ryan had shouted back from overhead. "My kitchen balcony overlooks it, but you'd be w-welcome to sit out there. It's quite a nice suntrap by mid-afternoon."

Jake had opened every cupboard and fingered across the cutlery and crockery, realising what the other detectives said about Ryan Shale was true. Every cup, plate, glass, and fork had been straightened and polished with military precision. So how could his utterly chaotic nature be a good fit, even if for only a few days? He imagined being hurled back onto the street before the weekend was even over.

"It was good of you to show me your home," he'd said, departing quickly for fear of outstaying his welcome. "I'll let you know."

He'd never had anyone reach out with such generosity, so the suspicion of what might be expected in return had paralysed him with fear. No one did decent things for nothing, so what would happen if he couldn't come up with the goods?

Questions and worries were piling up in his mind, but as the rain rattled the bus shelter's tin roof, the desire for a warm bed and central heating prodded him. Thoughts of privacy in the bathroom were also sorely tempting because the communal showers in the men's hostels were often dangerous places.

He zipped up the parka and toyed with the burner phone.

I've no reason to be frightened of him.

A cluster of terrifying childhood memories begged to differ, but he struggled to cleanse his mind of them and think clearly.

Try my luck with Roomba Ryan ... or head to Piccadilly?

"It's me," he said as the call connected.

"I know," Ryan replied. "The person's name p-pops up on the screen when someone rings."

"Does it? I never realised that."

"The joys of modern technology," Ryan murmured. "So ... what news?"

"I've decided I'd very much like to stay in your basement for a couple of nights." Jake's heart pounded in his throat at the prospect of accepting such a huge favour from someone he hardly knew. "If the offer still stands, that is ..."

Ryan did not respond, and Jake gritted his teeth. The silence obviously meant the detective had been hurt by his scarpering once he'd checked the rooms. But the overwhelm had simply been too much to cope with ... Or had Ryan found a proper professional to take the basement while he'd been busy dithering over his decision? Yes – some educated intellectual would be a far better fit. He was too scruffy – that was his problem ... too run down and dirty to be worthy of such a nice place to lay his head.