Candleland Read Free Page A

foreboding, hypnotic. Larkin checked on Moir. He stirred slightly but kept on sleeping. Larkin doubted he’d wake up before they arrived if he’d consumed as much alcohol as the smell coming off him seemed to suggest.
    Larkin settled back, the music casting its spell on him. He checked out, mentally replaying the last few days …
    â€œLook at the state of that. Fucking disgrace …”
    The Baltic Flour Mills stood on the south bank of the Tyne, Gateshead side. To Larkin, it was one of the last remaining symbols of Newcastle as a bustling port, of locally built ships on the Tyne, of work and industry, of pride and optimism in the region. That era was gone, disappeared, a fading, eroding memory. The building was being converted into an arts and leisure centre to house orchestras, art galleries, the lot. Larkin had argued, strongly and loudly, that since the North East was now officially the poorest area in England, and the only growth industry was call centres, the local council should be doing something more than this gesture, which he took to be a symbolically cynical one.
    â€œElitist shite,” said Larkin.
    â€œYeah,” said Andy from the sofa, “I think I read something about that. Now, who was it …?” He pretended to think. “Very well argued. Very angry. Had the City Council quaking in their boots. And good lord!” Andy suddenly mock exclaimed. “If that isn’t the very author in my front room!” His voice dropped. “And if he doesn’t change his fuckin’ tune he’ll be out that window.”
    â€œYeah, well,” said Larkin, turning his back on the view. He’d given up expecting reasoned debate from Andy.
    â€œAn’ don’t go givin’ me that ‘We used to build ships, now we answer the phone’ bollocks. That dignity of labour crap. Save it for your readers.” Andy sat down. “Anyway, think about it. What would you rather do? Risk your life weldin’ steel plate thirty feet up or sit in a comfy chair and yak on all day?”
    Larkin didn’t reply. “That’s better, Sunday’s a day of rest, remember? You can take time off from the fight,” Andy said through a mouthful of toast. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
    Larkin had called in to see Andy a couple of hours after leaving Moir sitting on his bench, drinking himself into amnesia. In the meantime he had been walking, trying to straighten the thoughts in his head. He had guessed the reason for Moir’s summons, or at least narrowed it down to a set of possibilities on the same theme. As soon as Moir had broached the subject, Larkin knew what his answer was going to be. Moir was a friend and Larkin couldn’t let him down. But the speed with which Larkin had agreed had both surprised and confused himself.
    Andy’s flat was in an old warehouse that had been gentrified into expensive living accommodation. An open-plan space with bare brick walls and modernist furniture, his camera equipment and a huge TV and video set up dominated one corner while a minimalist CD system backed by stacked and indexed discs sat in the opposite corner next to a state-of-the-art PC setup. Walls were adorned by occasional framed photographs – all Andy’s own work. Good quality rugs were strategically placed on the polished wood floors and a select library of art and photography books were shelved to one side of the window. It wasn’t to Larkin’s taste but, he had to admit, it had more style than he would have given Andy credit for. Larkin had expected Andy’s taste to run more towards purple shagpile, waterbeds and Barry White, but he’d yet to see inside the bedroom. Maybe he should reserve final judgement until he’d seen the inner sanctum.
    Andy Brennan was Larkin’s partner, a South London gobshite and top photographer who snapped the pictures to Larkin’s words. A textbook case of opposites