Someone Else's Conflict (2 page)

Time for work. He wiped his fingers on the paper serviette and tucked it with the chip wrapper under the seat to dispose of later – this bench was too strategic to risk losing by going over to the bin – before producing a flute from a rucksack pocket. His colourful cotton scarf was soon spread carefully in front of his feet and his hat positioned neatly upside-down in the dead centre. A stage wasn't strictly necessary, but he liked the effect. He began to play. An audience started to gather, lingering at the safe distance people always left in these situations. He finished his tune, stood, made brief eye contact with a few in the scattered crowd – enough to intrigue them, not enough to intimidate – and began a story. The ideal tale for this situation, about the king's daughter who refused all her suitors, wasting away as she refused to eat until the right one came along. He had a store of exploits the unfortunate knights and princes performed to try and win her hand – some scary, some downright funny – which he could draw on or leave out as the attention of his audience demanded.

He watched with satisfaction as the dozen or so stragglers grew until he had quite a crowd – often, but by no means always, children dragging their parents over to watch. When he deemed the time was right, he brought in the peasant lad who, refusing to attempt any of the tasks set by the king, tricked his way into cooking the princess a meal. He had no treasure to offer, only the beautiful dark green, crinkly globe of a perfect cabbage from his father's croft, something the princess had tasted far too rarely among the overblown delicacies of court banquets. With the king's kitchens and herb gardens at his disposal, the lad cooked her a meal which in its simplicity was like nothing she'd ever been offered before. Unable to resist the hearty dish set before her, she ate and as she did so knew she'd found her future husband. As Jay came to the happy-ever-after, he glanced sidelong at the stall, smiling as if noticing its wares for the first time.

Ducking his head to acknowledge the scattered applause, he picked up his flute and started to play. One or two people wandered surreptitiously over to the stall. It was always a pleasure to observe the way they tried to look as if they were merely browsing while listening. Humble cabbages didn't make it easy; he would have preferred the greengrocer to have something exotic to shift like pomegranates, say, or coconuts, but he was adaptable and liked a challenge. Other stories, by no means all food-related (that would be too unsubtle), more music and soon his little crowd had grown, together with the greengrocer's supply of customers. Interested people attracted more people.

After about an hour, he pocketed his flute, gathered up the healthy pile of change and put his hat back on his head. He moved via the rubbish bin to join the customers around the stall, positioning himself at the end near the Savoys. The stallholder approached him with an open smile and served him in person. He chose a nice selection and delved into his pocket for some of the change he'd just collected.

‘These are on me, mate,' the stallholder said, glancing at the crowd of shoppers and extending his hand.

‘Thanks very much.'

As he shook the man's hand Jay showed just enough surprise to indicate he wasn't taking anything for granted but knew what he was doing.

‘Don't suppose you fancy a final session?'

Jay shrugged in response as the greengrocer, who'd told him his name was Mike, glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds had been gathering as he performed.

‘Best get going.' He, too, looked up at the storm clouds. ‘Doesn't look promising.'

The greengrocer handed him the bag, and with it a fiver. ‘Will you be here again?'

‘Could well be.'

‘We're here every Friday and Saturday.'

Jay thanked him and turned to go, surprised at the man's generosity. He often earned himself a meal this way, but tips were rare. Beyond the bench that had been his stage was an ethnic clothes stall, and he half-wondered whether to build on his good fortune by seeking to persuade them that the exotic atmospheres conjured by his performance had increased their trade, too. A swarthy young man was examining a rail of colourful shirts; Jay paused to work out if he was the owner or simply a potential customer. As he approached, the lad, younger than he'd looked from behind, turned. Jay stopped in his tracks. A translucence tinged the air at the edge of his vision. He fought the feeling down. The youth seemed to hesitate for an instant, watching him, before he turned and moved quickly off through the market. He soon disappeared from view among the shoppers.

Jay collected himself and walked over to the sandalwood-scented stall.

‘Excuse me,' he said to the woman who was quite obviously the owner now he came to look, ‘That lad in the leather jacket who was here just now. Do you know him?'

‘Sorry, never seen him before.' She smiled. ‘You're the street entertainer, right? I really enjoyed listening, between customers.'

‘Thanks,' he smiled back. ‘I think I'll be here again before too long.'

He left more abruptly than he'd intended, unable to resist heading in the direction the youth had taken. He knew he'd already lost track of him and told himself his story-heightened senses had overplayed the resemblance anyway. Normality began to settle around him. After scanning the streets for a few moments, he shrugged it off as uncanny but impossible and went in search of a newsagent's to buy some pipe tobacco. A snatch of overheard conversation in the shop confirmed that storms were on the way, borne out by the gathering clouds, so his next move would be to find somewhere to spend the night before the rain arrived.

Marilyn sat down on the bench the busker had vacated and went through her bag again, trying to be systematic about it while not attracting attention. She checked every pocket – jacket, jeans – even though she knew her purse was not in any of them. The
Keep calm and…
range of mugs and teatowels in the window of a nearby gift shop attracted her attention.
Keep calm and kill buskers
. She'd been glad she'd stopped to listen, but the magic was soon supplanted by the nagging suggestion that perhaps the guy had an accomplice and did this routinely. At least being unable to find her purse meant she hadn't thrown him any change; that would have added insult to injury. The clouds that had been gathering all day finally conspired to hide the sun as a fleeting image came to her mind of the teenager standing nearby in the small audience. She clearly remembered his sharp features softened by a dark floppy fringe, with a stud earring just visible. Her annoyance transferred to herself. Why suspect him just because he was a youth? It wasn't so long since she'd been that age. Or was it the hint of a foreign accent in his ‘Excuse me', as a boisterous child had jostled him against her? He'd been friendly enough to apologise, and returned her accepting smile with one of his own. It was obvious he'd been as entranced as she was by the performance, not some thief alert for a mark. No, just because she felt a residual resentment at having to spend the morning in the spare workshop at Matt's craft centre, with no inkling of when her own place would be ready, didn't mean she had to go pointing the finger indiscriminately.

It wasn't as if she had anything too important in the purse – just enough cash, a few receipts and only one card, which she'd phone and cancel as soon as she was certain. What really riled her was the inconvenience and blush-inducing embarrassment of it – Mike the greengrocer's patronising show of understanding as he offered to keep the bag of goods behind the stall until she, the scatty woman, sorted herself out. And the fact that if she did want to claim them she'd either have to go back and borrow from Matt, or waste the good part of an hour, and half a gallon of petrol, going home and back. The first was unbearable and the second impossible – she had an appointment at four with a new outlet for her pottery, and reporting the theft was a priority for the little time she had left.

She was fortunate to catch an officer in at the police station, and while she was describing the purse, its contents and where she'd last seen it, her annoyance and frustration grew as it occurred to her that her fuel tank was low and she now had no money or card to fill it. She gave a brief description of the youth – purely as a possible witness, she told her conscience – and left as quickly as she could, as if by setting off sooner she could reach her destination before the petrol tank ran dry. It didn't work. The gauge was too low for common sense and she ended up phoning to rearrange the appointment for Monday and going straight home to raid the freezer.

Why had he run? He hadn't run, Vinko's pride told him, he'd walked away. Had no choice, after being so reckless. Reckless? The woman had her patchwork bag hanging open, purse on full view – an opportunity, and he'd have been a fool to let it go. Better a sparrow in your hand than a pigeon on the branch. The kind of wisdom peddled by the storyteller – he hadn't understood every word, but the stories held him all the same. And the music…the tunes had got to him, kind of familiar. What had been reckless was allowing himself to be held there, lingering when he should have been long gone. But since he
had
lingered, after the woman with the patchwork bag had safely moved on and the busker was packing up to go, he should have stopped to talk to him. Something had held him back like a physical barrier. Perhaps it might have been different if he hadn't overheard the conversation at the market stall which suggested the man would be back.

The square was still busy though the sky was duller, the air muggy and threatening. Eager to salvage something more than a day out in much pleasanter surroundings than the city he was living in for now – he refused to think of that as anything other than temporary – he spent a few moments watching the steadily dwindling crowds. People on days out, perhaps less wary of their possessions than they normally would be. He wasn't particularly proud of the way he got his pocket money, but it didn't bother him too much. These people would happily put coins in tins rattled for the orphans of war, so wasn't he simply cutting out the middleman, saving them the trouble of nagging their consciences to part with a few pennies? Enabling them to help a little without having to worry about the blanket nationality of
Illegal
to colour their judgement? He hated the drudgery of his job at the factory and knew they paid him half what they should, but he also knew he was in no position to complain or do anything about it. It barely covered the rent of his room in a run-down shared house and only just bought him enough to live, so he felt entitled to make a little extra until he could find a way of getting citizenship. Get himself a proper job, train to do something worthwhile. If he ever did. His mother had been forced to stay on in Germany when the refugees drifted home, had never registered his birth, and ever since he'd been old enough to wonder about these things he'd never known where it left him. As far as he knew he wasn't legally entitled to be anywhere. He supposed you could buy anything if you had the means, including the right to exist.

He hung around for a few more minutes, vigilant; this wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. People may be less wary, but he was unsure of his ground, had to keep an additional part of his awareness alert for others whose territory he might be invading. Eventually he decided to content himself with the sparrow he'd already caught. Locked in a cubicle in the public toilets, away from prying eyes, he removed the cash. He had no use for cards, and in any case he never intended to take that much. On his way back to the square he dropped the emptied purse onto a low wall as deftly as he'd taken it. As he walked towards the bus stop he saw the woman heading for the car park. He hoped she'd see the purse.

The bus finally carried him away and a calm began to settle over him. He'd be back, just as the busker had said he'd be back. It briefly occurred to him that it was something they had in common: elusiveness, the ability to disappear at any time if they chose. He wondered when the time would come to make that choice, and move on. His mother had always said he should come here to find his grandparents, his family. He had the address, but had always held back from following it up. The only other family he'd had contact with had let him down. Dumped him here, then disappeared. Why should they be any different? But something in him knew that he would not move on until he'd at least tried.

Dusk was drawing down, brought on early by the heavy clouds, as the bus pulled in to Keighley where he had to get off and change. Or simply get off, he thought, if he was going to pay that call. He wandered along the soulless concourse, a chill wind blowing fast-food wrappers to the cacophonous accompaniment of rolling drink cans and the distant rumble of traffic. He looked at the numbers and names on the buses he passed, thinking that most were still as unfamiliar to him as the places of the faraway home he'd never known but had heard so much about. And there it was again, that nagging reminder. It had to be done; the longer he delayed, the worse it would be. But it was getting late, not the kind of time to make an unexpected social call. There was always the morning; he lingered long enough to let the next Bradford bus leave, telling himself he merely fancied a change of scene for the night and could see how he felt in the morning.

The premature twilight had turned dark, the weird light accentuated by the jaded orange glow of the streetlights. The heavens opened as an extraordinary flash illuminated the early Saturday-night revellers dashing for cover. Neither the rain nor the explosive rumble that followed interrupted the studied cool of Vinko's stride as he looked in his own time for shelter. He found a shop doorway at the top of a sloping street which offered a reasonable view of what promised to be a fine show. He briefly wondered if he'd be enjoying this as much if he'd experienced the same things his father had – but he'd never know so it didn't matter. He took his phone from the pocket of his charity-shop leather jacket and quickly texted Ravi to say he wouldn't be out with them that night, giving no reason and hoping his housemate would think he'd picked up a girl. The next lightning flash coincided perfectly with the moment he pressed Send. He grinned to himself as he leaned against the side of the plate-glass entranceway to watch the bonus entertainment, a prelude to his planned take-away followed by a few drinks and a good night's clubbing.