Ravenfall. Narrelle M Harris

though without a lodger it’ll be the bank’s by the end of the year. Want to see the room? Two hundred quid a week. You pay half the utilities, and for your own groceries.’

      ‘Yes, please.’ That was nearly a hundred quid less than the poky bedsit he was supposed to be seeing. Helene insisted he had to move from that nasty basement room in Bexley, so full of damp and mould it might as well be part of the Shuttle River, but the costs of moving were making him edgy. ‘Cleaning roster and responsible for our own cooking?’

      ‘Naturally. Aren’t you worried I’m a nutjob cannibal that’s going to eat your kidneys one bright morning when I’ve had it to the back teeth with my dead end office job?’

      Gabriel had once met a man who might have been capable of such a thing. Sharpe was nothing like him. ‘Nope. You’re a doctor at the community health centre on Lester Avenue. I’ve seen you there, anyway. Ex-army, I heard.’

      Sharpe grimaced, his fingers automatically going to the lines of a tattoo visible under the sleeve of his khaki T-shirt: red flowers and the tail end of a caduceus.

      ‘Combat Medical Technician; infantry,’ said Sharpe. When Gabriel showed surprise, he added, ‘At the time, being at the pointy end seemed a better use of my medical degree.’

      ‘A bit quieter around here, I’m guessing.’

      ‘Most days. I’m only at the clinic part time. None of that means I’m not planning to eat your kidneys. According to Baxter.’ He indicated the general direction of the recent ex-lodger.

      ‘My reflexes are top drawer, so you’re welcome to try,’ said Gabriel, bouncing on his toes to demonstrate his agility, ‘And anyway, aren’t you worried I’m a drifter looking for lonely victims to seduce and then murder for their army pension?’

      Sharpe laughed, surprised and genuinely amused, which delighted Gabriel. Most people were shocked at his gallows humour. And Sharpe had a fantastic laugh, uninhibited, making him appear younger.

      ‘Well, as you say,’ said Sharpe, ‘I have quality reflexes and you’re welcome to try. Baxter’s already let you in on my worst habits. Still want to see?’

      ‘Sure. Your habits sound no worse than mine.’

      ‘You intrigue me, Mr…?’

      ‘Gabriel Dare.’ He said it with a hint of defiance. He was used to how people reacted to a glamorous-sounding name that in no way reflected his actual life.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes, really.’

      ‘Fine then, Mr Gabriel Dare. If you like the room, it’s yours. I’m James Sharpe.’

      Gabriel tried not to be too swayed by the way that soft accent rendered his name so pleasing to the ear. He turned to the scandalised and uncomfortable estate agent. ‘Thanks for bringing me to see the bedsit. I’ll sort out the rest from here.’ He shook the man’s hand and strode through the gate in the low wall towards his new flatmate.

      Gabriel approved of the flat and the offered room. Spacious, with convenient shelves in which to store his art supplies, and enough clear floor to work by the window, if Helene couldn’t find him studio space somewhere else.

      The window overlooked the narrow back garden. A convenient trellis ran beside it, holding up an unhealthy ivy vine; evidence that perhaps there had once been a garden. Gabriel leaned out of the window to check the trellis’s strength. It wasn’t great, but he could fix it later. The door to the ground-level laundry was immediately below, and that could be useful too.

      ‘I experiment sometimes with pigments and finishes,’ said Gabriel, figuring a full confession now would save being tossed out later, which had happened before, ‘But I’ll do that in my room rather than the common areas. I’m a trained chemist, so it’s unlikely I’ll cause any real explosions.’

      Sharpe raised an eyebrow. ‘Real explosions?’

      Gabriel’s mouth pursed because once more he’d run off at the mouth, being frank rather than politic, and he’d blown it. Damn.

      But Dr Sharpe was grinning at him, as if the idea that he could get blown up in a pigment experiment was divertingly funny.

      ‘I did say it was unlikely,’ Gabriel said cautiously.

      ‘You can use the kitchen table if you like, as long as you clean up the aftermath,’ Sharpe said good-humouredly. ‘Any other potential hazards to life and limb I should know about?’

      ‘I may have guests at odd hours,’ confessed Gabriel, ‘I’ll keep it to a minimum. I expect I’ll see most of them in the garden.’

      ‘Day or night?’

      ‘It could be any time. Is that a problem?’

      ‘Give me a bit of warning if you can.’

      ‘If it’s a problem–’

      ‘No, no, it’s not.’ Sharpe pursed his lips. ‘I like to know when new people are around. I’m… Look. I should be frank, if you’re going to live here. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s okay, except when it’s not. Hence the insomnia Baxter was talking about, and… other things. I can get a wee bit fractious if there are unexpected visitors at strange hours.’

      Sharpe looked unhappy, and Gabriel found he didn’t like Sharpe looking unhappy. The poor bastard seemed so withdrawn. He’d met men like that before, not all of them veterans. They all held themselves like Dr Sharpe, though. Wary and reserved and so lonely.

      ‘I knew an army veteran once,’ he offered suddenly, ‘Used to get the heeby jeebies at the smell of oranges, and he couldn’t ever tell me why. Nice guy, though. He watched out for people.’

      A little furrow of confusion made a wrinkle between Sharpe’s eyebrows.

      ‘All I mean is – I’ll be mindful and let you know when I have callers if I can, or as soon as they arrive. They can’t always let me know in advance. If that’ll help.’

      ‘Cheers, yeah.’ Sharpe, satisfied, changed the subject. ‘Well, you know I’m a GP. What do you do for a crust? You mentioned pigments.’

      ‘I’m an artist, but I work part-time at an art supplies factory for regular dosh. I’m a qualified chemist.’

      ‘Hence the pigment experiments?’

      ‘Hence, though mostly they’re for fun. If they’ll be a problem…’

      ‘No, that’s fine. Surprisingly, loud bangs aren’t my issue. Just unexpected midnight visitors, and only sometimes then.’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘Your visitors – are they… buyers… or…?’

      ‘I’m not a drug dealer, Dr Sharpe. Or a user. I make a living with pigment chemistry and my art. My work’s at the Dupre Gallery on Sutton Street, if you want proof.’

      ‘No, that’s all good. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

      ‘That’s fine. Not a stupid question, under the circumstances. You don’t know me. I could be a coke fiend.’

      ‘No, I could tell you’re not a user.’ Gabriel raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘I’m a doctor,’ said Sharpe, ‘I know what to watch for.’

      Gabriel wasn’t inclined to take that at face value but it wasn’t, for the moment, important. ‘My visitors seek my help on other matters.’

      ‘Oh-ho, I was right. You are intriguing. Care to tell me what kind of help and on what kind of matters?’

      ‘If I don’t care to, is the deal off?’

      Sharpe grinned. ‘Hell, no. I won’t try to solve your mysteries if you leave mine alone too.’

      ‘Unlike the late Baxter?’

      ‘I wouldn’t call him late. He was still breathing, wasn’t he?’