Dream London Read Free Page A

a port-soaked old actor, filling the cool night air with warmth and bonhomie.
    “We make such a lovely couple, don’t we?” he announced, squeezing my hand. “A pretty pair of pals in this pale pedestrian precinct!” He leant closer to me, and I smelt the lavender that soaked his scarf. “Or we would,” he whispered in lower tones. “You’re not that way inclined, are you? Such a shame.” He laughed brightly. “Have I embarrassed you?”
    “No,” I said, and it was true. Captain Jim Wedderburn asked for nothing more than strong drink, a hearty meal and adventure, with maybe a little whoring thrown in on the side. His biggest concern would be whether he was heading for a late supper, or an early breakfast, and didn’t care who his companions were so long as they were entertaining.
    James Wedderburn, however, was more cautious...
    “What’s your name?” I asked.
    The Molly gasped.
    “Jim, you know the rules! No names.” He sighed. “But that’s not fair, is it? I know your name, after all. Well, call me Alphonse!”
    “Alphonse,” I said. “Like that’s a real name.”
    “It’s a pretty name though, don’t you think?”
    He smiled at me and batted his eyelashes, then giggled. I had to smile.
    “And where are you taking me, Alphonse?” I asked.
    “A private little place I know. A delightful little den where the drink is divine, the food to die for and the company utterly decadent.”
    “Is it far?”
    “Not at all, dear boy. We’re here already.”
    We stopped outside a narrow door squeezed between two shop entrances. A haberdashers to the left, an ironmongers to the right. The ribbons and buttons, the kettles and buckets in the shop windows seemed so definite, so unchanging, and yet I could remember when these two units had housed a mobile phone shop and a coffee bar respectively. The third door hadn’t been there at all, but in the past year it had shouldered its way onto the street front, an unassuming blank face with a brass doorknob.
    Alphonse rapped twice on the peeling paintwork.
    “A really, really big cucumber,” he giggled.
    “Is that the password?” I asked.
    “No,” he said. “I just like to make Charles laugh.”
    The door opened up and a boy of about thirteen stood there, grinning.
    “Alright, Alan,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
    “Oh, Charles, you had to go and spoil it! I’d told Jolly Jim that my name was Alphonse!”
    “Call yourself what you like,” I said.
    Alphonse/Alan waved a hand dismissively.
    “Is my table ready, Charles?”
    “They’ll have it fixed in a jiffy, Alphonse. In you go!”
     
     
    W E WALKED ALONG a dimly lit corridor at least twice as long as the building’s depth. The floor was covered in old carpet, the walls papered in wood chip. As we walked its length, we heard the sounds from behind the shabby doors that lined the corridor. Different rooms, hidden from view, each one a little world in which people laughed or argued or sobbed or played.
    “This walk gets longer every time,” said Alan. “This city is being stretched and pulled in all directions.”
    We came to a narrow set of stairs, an old red runner reaching down it like a dry and dusty tongue. We began to climb. Up and up, three flights, four flights...
    “Half way there,” said Alan.
    Doors faced onto the landings, shabby and worn, their paint peeling. I could hear a violin playing a mournful tune somewhere nearby and I felt the floor vibrate beneath my feet.
    Higher and higher. The building had only looked three storeys tall from the street. I guessed we would now be high enough to see the river. We passed through a breath of air, exhaled by one of the rooms.
    “Is that garlic?” I asked. “Or is it hash?” I sniffed again. “Or are there flowerboys in there?”
    “Best not to ask,” said Alan.
    Finally, we reached the top of the stairs. There was no corridor there, simply a gold panelled door. It opened at our approach and Alan gestured me to enter.
    I