Chapter 3
He jiggled the key in the lock, kicked the bottom of the door and trod on the junk mail before trudging up the narrow stairs. In the little kitchen, he took off his jacket and draped it over one of the chairs at the Formica topped table. Fridge opened, he pushed the cold meats and cheese from the local delicatessen onto a shelf with the eggs and closed the door. Methodically, he stacked the spaghetti hoops and baked beans on the counter before shoving a fresh loaf in the bread bin. He loosened his tie and took a bottle of Double Diamond from the cupboard, flipped the top and poured it into the glass he’d ‘borrowed’ from the pub around the corner.
In the living room, he flicked on the telly, closed the curtains and slid off his shoes. As the TV slithered into life, he adjusted the aerial then took two Len Deighton’s and an Agatha Christie from his bookshelf. Instant improvement, not brilliant but much better. He couldn’t work out how come some days the reception was almost perfect and others almost nonexistent.
The mews was small and quiet. Not a grand place but up and coming. Most people seemed to have the money to at least tart up the outsides. He suspected their interiors were a big improvement on his own. He’d get around to it, given time. At least he’d plugged the leaks in the roof, almost sorted the damp and given it a quick paint job.
He’d bought the place because it was affordable. ‘Bought’ was perhaps not quite right. ‘They’d given him a mortgage’ was much more accurate. It had been cost-effective for two reasons; the state it had been left in and the fact the local underground made frequent, although brief, excursions into fresh air via the deep cutting that bordered his outside wall.
The previous owner had been an aspiring artist but the only thing he’d succeeded in was becoming one of the ‘piss’ variety judging by all the empty bottles left behind. Certainly, if the few canvasses he'd found in what he hoped would become a garage were anything to go by the bloke would have gained more respect telling people he was a comedian.
Unfortunately, the garage idea hadn’t yet developed into reality. Gally couldn’t find anywhere to dispose of the decaying remains of an ancient hansom cab and he no longer had the money for a car having overspent on some suits that he hadn’t been able to resist. Well, the suits and a couple of casuals to be exact. He’d viewed it as an investment in his future sexual wellbeing and, to be honest, it had already paid dividends.
For work, he wore stuff considerably cheaper but needed to look reasonable so bought from either a local back street tailor or local menswear. When he wanted or needed a lower profile he ditched the tie and wore stuff from the market; an old casual jacket or, if he suspected a chill in the air, his peacoat. The thing was though, if you hoped to attract the right sort of woman; slightly older, married, bored, no complications or future expectations, the right look was essential. Those sort of women knew what they wanted and the fact you lived in a Mews always seemed to impress them as well, so he stretched himself and went to Anthony Sinclair, the man who’d made Bond’s suits for Goldfinger. When wearing one of those there was only one place to go when he felt lucky; the West End.
Anyway, the area was decent enough not to disappoint the infrequent visitor and subtle use of table lamps tended to distract from close inspection of his decorating and, as a bonus, the neighbours were reasonable people. They didn’t ask him any awkward questions, so he reciprocated. There was an actor living at the entrance end, nice sort of chap, he specialised in playing TV baddies but having spoken to him on several occasions Gally suspected if he ever met a real East End gangster he’d be wishing he’d worn his brown corduroys.
With another swig of beer, he wandered into the bedroom deciding he’d definitely have a night in then get up early and have a bath in the morning. It’d been a long day, a lot to think about but not now, all he needed tonight was some fairly mindless light entertainment.
Back in the kitchen, dressing gown and slippers, he stared into the fridge then a couple of cupboards reminding himself he needed to get wine to replace the two bottles he usually kept for ‘entertaining’ purposes. Normally, it would be a Vesta curry night but he couldn’t be arsed pushing the boat out so resorted to a stalwart from his Army days. Egg banjos. Fried eggs on buttered bread smothered in ketchup. Foolproof. With a plate of three, he settled down with another beer. A bit of Adam Adamant followed by Petula Clark and he’d go to bed with a book.