There was no reply.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’
I saw the boy’s mother glance up from her book.
‘We’ve got a right one here,’ Sammy said. ‘A right man of mystery.’
The boy’s knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. His sallow face was clenched. Sammy released her hands and in an instant he had sprung to his feet and was tearing off the nylon gown that was fastened around his shoulders.
‘Take it easy!’ Sammy said, stepping back with her palms raised. ‘There’s expensive equipment in here, you know.’
With strange, lunging movements the boy strode away from the chair towards the big glass door. His mother got to her feet, the book still in her hand, and watched as he yanked the door open and the black rainy street with its hissing traffic was revealed. He had pulled the handle so forcefully that the door continued to revolve all the way around on its hinges after he had let it go. It travelled further and further, until finally it collided heavily with the tiers of glass shelving where the haircare products stood in their neat rows. The boy stood frozen in the open doorway, his face lit up, his cropped hair as though standing on end, and watched as the bank of shelves disgorged a landslide of bottles and jars which fell and rolled with a great thundering sound out across the salon floor, and then itself collapsed in a tremendous shrieking cascade of breaking glass.
There was a moment of silence in which everyone stood absolutely still, Dale with the phone in his hand, Sammy holding the boy’s discarded cape, the mother with the book clasped in her fingers; even the Glamour-reading woman finally looked up from her magazine.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Sammy said.
The boy shot out through the doorway and disappeared into the wet, black street. For a few instants his mother stayed where she was, in the glittering field of bottles and broken glass. She wore an expression of stony dignity. She stared at Sammy, her eyes unblinking. Then she picked up her bag, carefully put her book in it, and walked out after her son, leaving the door open behind her.
The trees were a mixed blessing, Lauren said. Their massive forms, hulking in the darkness like ogres or giants, stood everywhere in the town. They rose towering amid the buildings and along the roadsides: she had to admit they were quite dramatic. Where we were walking the thick trunks were driven like piles into the pavements, so that the slabs rose up and down in a series of undulations with the pressure of the roots from underneath. Some of these roots had penetrated to the surface: their blind, snake-like forms, thicker than a human arm, lay impacted in the stone. They were a constant tripping hazard, Lauren said; and at this time of year, when the leaves started falling, the whole centre would be carpeted two or three inches deep in foliage that got so slimy the place became an ice rink.
She asked whether I had had a pleasant journey from London, despite everything. The branch line was the problem: the London train only had to be delayed by a few minutes for you to miss the connection. It happened all the time, and it was hard to run a literary festival when the authors – through no fault of their own, of course – turned up late. But the town’s inaccessibility, she conceded, was also its beauty: the winding route through dense wooded valleys, the chasm-like glimpses of river and hillside as the train wound deeper and deeper into the lofty emptiness, was spectacular. She herself usually drove, for the sake of convenience. But the train journey was very nice.
We were hurrying up and down the undulating pavements, turning left and right and left again, while every so often Lauren glanced at the slim watch she wore on her wrist. The light from the street lamps gilded the dense black foliage above our heads. A few drops of rain had started to fall: they made a smacking sound on the leaves. We ought to be all right, Lauren said, looking again at her watch. It was lucky I was a fast walker: with some authors – no offence intended – that wasn’t always the case. I should have a few minutes just to settle in and get the introductions over with: the others, she had been told, were waiting for me in the green room.
We had arrived at an institutional-looking building in the town centre whose doors stood open so that a square of electric light extended out into the street from the crowded lobby. Lauren stopped at the threshold and pointed inside. The green room was the second door on the left, she said: she was sure I would find it without difficulty. She herself had to go to the hotel to collect another author. She took a small umbrella out of her bag. You never want to be without one of these here, she said. She hoped the event would go well: they usually seemed to. The festival drew very enthusiastic audiences. I suppose, she added, somewhat doubtfully, there’s not that much else here to do.
When I pushed open the heavy wooden door to the green room I was instantly engulfed in heat and noise. People sat eating and drinking at round tables; a group of four men sat at one, and when the door closed heavily behind me they all turned their heads to look. One of them got up, and came forward with his hand extended. He introduced himself as the person who would be chairing our event. He was much younger than I had expected him to be, very lean and slight, but when we shook hands his grip was almost violently firm.