Free Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway

face. His eyes. Half of his forehead. His nose. His upper lip. Mishazzo said nothing. He didn’t want music. They were driving to the café in Holloway. He looked sad. Depressed. As if he wanted to confide something.
    – Your girl is good?
    – Yes sir.
    – What is her name?
    – Mary, he lied.
    – Mary?
    Mishazzo laughed.
    – She is a virgin?
    He turned into Seven Sisters Road. The sun came through the passenger window and warmed his face. He did not want anything to go wrong.
    – She has a job?
    – Yes.
    – What does she do?
    – She’s a receptionist.
    Mishazzo nodded.
    – Where is she a receptionist?
    – At an estate agent’s.
    – Where?
    – Oh. Down in the City.
    – Down in the City. She likes that?
    – Yes, I think so.
    – You think so?
    – She likes it. She likes working there. She likes the people. She likes being in the City.
    – Commercial?
    He looked in the mirror at Mishazzo’s third of a face. He could tell nothing from it.
    – What do you mean?
    – Commercial property? Residential property?
    – Residential.
    Mishazzo’s voice was impatient. Maybe it was the traffic. There wasn’t much of it but it was veering all over the road.
    He felt his face light up. His skin was hot on the left.
    – Do you want me to stay on Seven Sisters?
    – Why wouldn’t you stay on Seven Sisters?
    Mishazzo’s eyes were on his left. Everything was burning up. He wanted to crash the car. For a second he thought about it. He could swerve suddenly, glance off the van on his inside, spin around, be hit by the approaching bus. He could skid off the road into railings. He could hurt himself if he did it hard enough. He could end up in a bed with people bringing him grapes and cards, watching TV all day, with her by his side.
    He shifted in his seat so that the eyes were smaller. He drove with his shoulder pressed up against the door as if trying to open it.
     
    He called Hawthorn. It went straight to his voicemail and he hung up.
    He walked through the park. He tried Hawthorn again. Twice.
    He sat at a bench and looked at some boys playing football. He called again and left a message.
    – Call me please. As soon as you can.
    She was at work. He could see the café from the bench. He stayed put. There were the boys playing football. There were some people walking. There were no parked cars.
    She was surprised to see him.
    – What’s wrong?
    – Nothing is wrong. I finished early. Thought I’d come over.
    She took his arm and they walked along the canal for a while. She kept asking him what was wrong. He kept laughing and saying Nothing. Nothing .
    Hawthorn called him back just as they got home.
    – What is it?
    – Nothing.
    – Nothing?
    – What time tomorrow?
    – The usual. What’s wrong?
    He looked at his fingers and watched her close the curtains against the low sun. He felt that something awful was happening but he didn’t know what, and he stared at her back in shadow and suspected that the feeling itself was the awful thing, and then she said something and he lost his train of thought and Hawthorn had hung up.
     
    He waited early by the car, smoking, looking at the street. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He didn’t notice Price until he heard him. Price standing in the door of the café a couple of doors down from the office. They sat in there a lot of the time – Price and some of the others that he’d driven around. They sat there fiddling with their phones, reading the papers, annoying the waitress, doing whatever it was they did, coming and going.
    – You avoiding me?
    – What?
    Price motioned to him. He glanced at the office, threw down his cigarette, walked over.
    – I never see you these days. You don’t socialise. You don’t come see me.
    – Well, I’m working. It’s been busy.
    – Lots of busy. Hither and thither and yon. It’s as good as The Knowledge.
    He nodded. Price was smiling. All friendly, hands in pockets, rocking a little back and forth.
    – How’s the car?