of Dunhills and a roll of breath mints at Pukkas Pizza Slices Et Cetera (the accent being on the et cetera, for their pizza was rubbish in a shoe), which was where the Crescent made its turn up into the Strand. Here the road created a slow climb to the top of the town, and Clean Barrel Surf Shop stood on a corner half the distance up, just along a route that offered a hair salon, a decrepit nightclub, two extremely down-at-heel hotels, and a fish-and-chips takeaway.
He finished his coffee before he got to the surf shop. There was no bin nearby, so he folded the takeaway cup and put it in the pocket of his rain jacket. Ahead of him, he could see a young man with Julius Caesar hair having an earnest conversation with Nigel Coyle, Clean Barrel's owner.
This would be Will Mendick, Selevan thought. He'd had high hopes of Will, but so far they'd come to nothing.
Selevan heard Will saying to Nigel Coyle, -I admit I was wrong, Mr. Coyle. I shouldn't even have suggested it. But it's not like it's something I ever did before," to which Coyle replied,
-You're not a very good liar, are you," before walking off with his car keys jingling in his hand.
Will said darkly, -Sod you, man. Sod you for a lark," and as Selevan came up to him, -Hullo, Mr. Penrule. Tammy's inside."
Selevan found his granddaughter restocking a rack with colourful brochures. He observed her the way he always observed her, like a species of mammal he'd never come upon before. Most of what he saw he disapproved of. She was skin and bones in black: black shoes, black tights, black skirt, black jersey. Hair too thin and cut too short and not even a bit of that sticky goo in it to make it do something other than what it did, which was lie lifelessly against her skull.
Selevan could have coped with the black and the skin and bones of the girl if she'd given the slightest bit of evidence that she might be normal. Ring her eyes with kohl and plant silver rings through her eyebrows and her lips and a stud in her tongue, and he understood that. Mind, he didn't like it, but he understood. That was the fashion among certain people her age and they'd come to their senses, one hoped, before they disfigured themselves entirely. When they hit twenty-one or maybe twenty-five and they discovered that gainful employment wasn't beating a path to their doorsteps, they'd sort themselves out. Like Tammy's father. And what was he now?
Lieutenant colonel in the army with a posting in Rhodesia or wherever, because Selevan could never keep track of him - and it would always be Rhodesia to Selevan, never mind what it wanted to call itself - and a distinguished career stretching out before him.
But as for Tammy? Can we send her to you, Dad? her father had asked Selevan, his voice coming over the phone line as true as if he'd been standing in the very next room and not in an African hotel where he'd parked his daughter prior to flying her off to England. And what was her granddad to do, then? She had her ticket. She was on her way. We can send her to you, can't we, Dad? This isn't the right environment for her. She sees too much. We think that's the problem.
Selevan himself had his own ideas of what the problem was, but he liked the thought of a son relying on his father's wisdom. Send her, Selevan told David. But mind, I'll not have any of her nonsense if she's going to stop with me. She'll eat her meals and clean up after herself and -
That, his son told him, would not be a problem.
True enough. The girl barely left a wake behind her. If Selevan had thought she would cause him trouble, what he'd come to learn was that the trouble she caused came from not causing trouble at all. That wasn't normal, which was the heart of the matter. For damn it all, she was his granddaughter. And that meant she was meant to be normal.
She tapped the final brochure into place and straightened the rack. She stepped back, as if to see its effect, just as Will Mendick came into the shop. He said to Tammy, -No bloody good. Coyle won't take me back," and then to Selevan, -You're early today, Mr. Penrule."