Page 61 of Copper Script
His stump hurt too.It still ached now and then; probably it always would.He didn’t get phantom hand sensations any more, thank God, just firing nerves and a dull pain in the cold, but there was plenty to resent, all the same.
He passed the Royal Free Hospital with the glower he always gave hospitals on principle.Nearly there now, which was good because he was itching to be home, even if his bedsit scarcely deserved the name.He wanted to be inside, away from the cold and damp and dark and the sense of people watching him.
He wasn’t quite sure where that last thought came from.It came, though, and he felt himself straighten as his muscles tensed in response.
He didn’t ignore it, because his instincts paid his bills and had carried him safely through three years of war, before he got careless.He sped up a little, heart thumping, eyes darting.Couldn’t see anyone.There were feet behind him, but well behind.Might be nothing.Lots of people would be walking to the railway station, even at this hour.
He turned down Acton Street, ears straining for feet behind him, and crossed over Percy Circus, and now he was pretty sure he wasn’t being followed at all.What a drama out of nothing.He’d laugh at himself as soon as he was inside.
A handful of yards past the roundabout, number 22 right there, and a man just a few steps further along.He was leaning against the railings, smoking a cigarette, cap pulled down low, and he’d turned his head to watch Joel approach.
Joel’s keys were in his overcoat pocket.He closed his hand round them, slotting them between his fingers, with a tiny anticipatory pulse of nausea at the idea of punching someone with them.Breaking his fingers, or the metal tearing them, anything that might damage his remaining hand—
Calm down, he told himself.He kept his pace steady, and the man kept his gaze steady too, watching Joel and making no effort to hide it.Joel pretended not to see.He climbed the steps with his spine clamped tight, his skin prickling, poised to whip round at the slightest sound of movement.
None came.Nothing at all.He unlocked the front door with a shaky hand, which was absurd.He was panicking over nothing, over a man who was loitering in the drizzle for his own reasons and would probably have watched any passer-by—
He glanced down, and the man looked directly up at him, meeting his eyes.He kept looking, without speech or movement, until Joel closed the door.
He did not sleep well that night.
***
AFEW DAYS LATER JOELwas still feeling fairly wretched about all of it.
For one thing, he’d been unreasonable and he knew it.Aaron’s back-and-forthing, his cowardice even, was a perfectly good reason to give him short shrift, and if Joel had said as much in a sensible way, he’d have nothing to feel bad about.As it was, he’d flown off the handle when Aaron had declined sex, and that was shitty, even if it wasn’t what he’d actually meant.He ought to apologise, if only for that part.
He wasn’t going to, obviously, certainly not in the absence of any apology from Aaron for all the pissing about.He’d do much better to forget the whole thing, since his stupid hopes and nonsensical feelings had worked him up into a state where he’d not only embarrassed himself making unwanted demands, but talked himself into being terrified of a few footsteps and a loiterer.
That was Aaron’s fault too, of course, him and his vague allusions to risks and dangers and dodgy colleagues.Not Joel’s problem, and he was going to stay well away.Any further telegrams—not that there would be any, nor was he hoping for one—were going straight into the waste-paper basket.
“Pick yourself up, Wildsmith,” he said aloud.He’d done it before, in far worse circumstances.When you’d lost your family, such as it was, and your dominant hand, and your liberty, you learned to shake off minor losses such as a casual one-night lover who didn’t matter anyway.He just wished he had a few more clients to keep him busy while he did the shaking off, because right now the afternoon was stretching very emptily in front of him.
Fine.He’d meant to refresh the classified advertisement he put in the papers anyway, so he’d do it now.He’d pay for more space, enough for a testimonial or two, maybe get someone to lay it out with a few decorative flourishes.He could afford to invest a little more in finding new clients.
He was just drafting the text when somebody knocked.
Landlady, probably.It wouldn’t be a telegram boy and it certainly wouldn’t be Aaron.It was the middle of the day, and he wasn’t thinking about Aaron.
He went to the door and opened it to see an unfamiliar man in a check coat.It wasn’t a nice coat, but he didn’t look like a terribly nice man.The cold eyes, broken nose, and mangled mess of one ear might be clues.
“Hello?”Joel said.
“Joel Wildsmith, graphologist?”the man asked.He didn’t say it nicely.
“That’s right.Who are you?”
“Mind if I come in?”The man had already started moving.Joel stepped back.He had the distinct feeling that if he didn’t, he’d be pushed.
“I don’t think we have an appointment,” he said warily.“Who are you?”
The man was looking around.His cheeks had the broken blood vessels of a drinker, or a fighter, or a rough life, or all three.“Nice place, Mr.Wildsmith.Graphologist?What’s that, then?”
“I analyse handwriting.Again, who are you?”
“You can call me Mr.Twigg.”
“And...do you want some handwriting analysed?”Joel wondered if Mr.Twigg actually wanted something read to him.He didn’t look like he’d paid a lot of attention in school, somehow.
