He glanced at my eyes, said,

“You’re up all right.”

I was sliding on a downer, snapped,

“Forget it.”

Jeff doesn’t do retaliation, began to pour a pint, said,

“What’s your hurry?”

I eased, said,

“Time I checked into Bailey’s.”

“Take a few more days. Cathy is glad of the company.”

I watched him cream the pint before I ventured,

“And you, Jeff, what’s your take?”

“I’m your friend, I don’t have a take.”

Is there a reply to this? I don’t know it. The door opened and Sweeper came in. A blue suit and a bluer shirt, wool tie. Except for a gold earring, he could have passed for a guard. The temptation to pun was ferocious.

Like,

“Look what the car swept in.”

Instead I said,

“Join me.”

“A mineral, please.”

Jeff checked.

“Club Orange?”

“Yes, please.”

We studied each other for a moment, then Sweeper took a swallow of the drink. Crunched the ice, revealing strong white teeth. I said,

“What’s on your mind?”

“You are in need of digs?”

“No…no, I’m not. I’m up to my eyes in accommodation.”

He gave the brief smile, said,

“You have the sharp tongue.”

“I like to cut to the chase.”

He produced a set of keys, placed them on the table, said,

“You’ll know Hidden Valley.”

“Of course…John Arden lives there.”

“Who?”

“Booker Prize nominee, highly respected dramatist…”

He put up his hand,

“I’m not a bookish man, Mr Taylor.”

“Never too late.”

“I didn’t say I’m unlearnt…I said something else entirely.”

Saw the flash in his eyes. Cautioned myself not to fuck with him.

Fucked with him anyway, said,

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

He ignored that, said,

“Some of my people bought a house there. They…didn’t settle. I’d like to offer you the house. It’s small but adequate.”