Corduroy Mansions Page 0,98

where the Dog House, with its large, welcoming windows, dominated a street corner. William glanced through the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of Eddie but the pub was busy and he could not see him.

“Now listen,” said Marcia as they went through the door, “don’t let him sweet-talk you in any way. He’s in the wrong, remember.”

William nodded grimly. But righteous anger is all very well when one is on one’s home ground; here at the Dog House he was on Eddie’s turf.

“See him?” asked Marcia, peering about the dimly lit bar.

William shook his head. “I’ll ask somebody,” he said.

He looked about him. Immediately to his left, a small group of people around a table had the air of being locals. He tapped one gently on the shoulder and the man looked up at him.

“You don’t know Eddie French, do you?”

“Yup. I know him.”

“Has he been in?”

The man looked at his fellow drinkers. “Anybody seen Eddie?”

“Yes,” said one. “He was in when I turned up. He went off a few minutes ago. Him and Stevie and that girl who hangs around with Stevie. They went off with that geezer who owns Diesel. I saw them going up the lane there—over there. See? That one. Few minutes ago.”

William turned to Marcia upon hearing this information. Diesel? Who, or what, was Diesel? And what would be going on in the lane?

69. Freddie de la Hay in Peril

“I DON’T LIKE the sound of this,” said Marcia.

“Nor do I,” muttered William. He wondered how well he knew his own son. Not very well, it appeared, what with the discovery of stolen property in his wardrobe and now finding him consorting in the pub with somebody who owned something called Diesel.

They walked swiftly and in silence a short distance up the road to the small lane that the man in the pub had indicated. It was a narrow one-way street, barely large enough to allow the passage of a vehicle, and not a very wide vehicle at that. On either side were shop windows—a barber’s, a cramped newsagent, an Indian restaurant from which an enticing smell of spices drifted.

“No sign of them,” said William, peering through the window of the restaurant to see if he could see Eddie and his friends within. “Is this the right place, do you think?”

Marcia had spotted an entrance further up to the right—the mouth of a close or a small courtyard, she thought. “Let’s take a look up there,” she said.

The entrance, a gangway between two buildings, was little more than a passage, dark even on this summer evening and slightly malodorous in an indefinable way. But as they entered it they heard sounds coming from the far end, and William stopped when he recognised Eddie’s laugh. He caught Marcia by the sleeve and pointed ahead.

“That’s them,” he whispered. “That was Eddie’s laugh.”

“Right,” Marcia whispered back. “Let’s go and see what they’re up to.” She had an idea already but hardly dared utter it. Now a barking sound drifted up the passage and she knew that she was right.

At the end of the passage, tucked away to one side, was something midway between a courtyard and a postage stamp of waste ground. As they came upon it, they saw Eddie to one side of the space, next to Stevie and Poosie, and on the other side was a thick-set man with a shaved head and a tattooed neck. And there was Freddie de la Hay, held at the collar by Stevie and facing a large white bull terrier that was, like its owner, extensively tattooed. As they came upon this scene, the bull terrier had just been released by his owner and was glaring at Freddie de la Hay, his teeth exposed in hostile rictus, emitting a low growling sound.

It was what Marcia had suspected—an organised dog fight.

“Eddie!” shouted William. “What on earth are you doing?”

Eddie spun round to face his father, staring at him speechlessly.

“What does it look like, mate?” shouted the thick-set man. “This is private business, innit? Get lost.”

The bull terrier looked briefly at William and snarled. This was Diesel.

“I said get lost!” shouted Diesel’s owner again. “Or shut up and watch.”

Stevie was busy with Freddie’s leash and collar, while Freddie stared in dread at Diesel and growled defensively.

“Eddie!” cried William again.

“Go back to the pub,” Eddie said. “We’ll come and see you later. We’re having some private fun.”

“Fun!” exclaimed William.

Stevie chose to intervene. “Yeah, fun, Mr. French,” he said. “A bit of innocent fun.”

“This