Free Salvation Row by Mark Dawson Page A

not turning.
    Milton waited, taking a step back so that he could see her more clearly. She took a screw from a pouch on her belt, lined it up with the corner of the unit, and drilled it into the roof. She reached down and tugged it until she was satisfied that it was properly secured, rested the drill against the top edge of the panel and turned around.
    She swiped the sweat from her eyes. “Can I help you?”
    “Isadora,” Milton said.
    “That’s my name. How can I help you?”
    “It’s John Smith.”
    She peered down at him. “Sorry. I—”
    “We met the night of the hurricane. Your brother helped my friend. We were in your parents’ house when it—”
    “Shit,” she said, her eyes going wide. “Mr. Smith? What are you doing here?”
    “I was in town,” he said, smiling the lie away. “I read about what you were doing. Thought I’d come and take a look.”
    “Mr. Smith,” she said for a second time. “Shit.”
    He felt bad that she only had the false name that he had given her. It was too late to correct that now, not without prompting questions that he wouldn’t be able to answer. That would lead to suspicion, and he wouldn’t be able to help her if she doubted him. That was just one of the gifts with which his profession had furnished him: he had to live with a lot of lies.
    “It’s John,” he said. “Please, you have to call me John.”
    #
    IZZY CLAMBERED down a ladder and took him back to a portable office behind the show home and showed him inside. It was being used as the base for the project. There were charts on the wall, photographs and sketches, schedules and plans. There was a single desk in the middle of the cabin. A man in a high-vis jacket was on the opposite side of the desk, smoking a cigarette while he argued with someone on the telephone. He saw Isadora, clocked Milton and—perhaps mistaking him for someone important—collected his helmet from atop the pile of papers on the desk and went outside. Izzy went around and sat in the newly vacated chair, indicating that Milton should take the other one. He did.
    “What are you doing here?” she said again.
    “Like I said. I heard about all this”—he spread his arms—“saw you were involved, and thought I’d come and have a look.”
    She looked squarely at him. “What do you think?” There was the edge of a smile on her lips, but it was obvious that the answer meant a lot to her. Not that it was his answer that she wanted, not especially. Milton guessed that she invested a lot in the answer every time she asked the question.
    “I think it’s amazing. The houses. They’re very impressive.”
    “We’re building the houses first, and then, eventually, a community centre.”
    “How many?”
    “Ten, so far, but we’ve got plans for fifty. That depends on a few things going right for us, though.”
    “Money?”
    “We’ve got the money. It’s self-sustaining. It’s…well, bits of it are more complicated than others.”
    Milton could see there was more to that than she had explained, and he remembered what she had said on the television, but he decided that this wasn’t the right time to focus on a negative. There were too many positives to acknowledge first. “Who set the charity up?”
    “I did. Five years ago. It was small then. Just me, really.”
    “But?”
    “But I raised some money, and…well, we started to grow.” She smiled at him warmly, her bright teeth showing. “Look, I could talk to you about it, or I could give you the tour. You got half an hour?”
    “I’ve got all day.”
    “Come on, then.”
    She got up and, as she did, she bumped up against the desk. A framed photograph that had been standing there toppled over. Milton caught it before it could fall to the floor and put it back.
    He looked at it. The photograph was of a family: two young parents, two kids. They were standing on the porch of one of the new houses, the siding painted a bright and optimistic yellow. “Happy