legs braced on the footpath, as though ready for an imminent call to action, his dark jeans clinging in all the right places. Light brown hair in a neat militarily short cut, clean-shaven, and sapphire blue eyes of a peculiar intensity. Very pale from his upper arms to his elbows, though his hands, forearms and face bore the traces of a faded tan. From his stance and body type, Gabriel suspected that Mr Sharpe had a good arse on him. He tried not to think about that. He liked a good arse on a man, and he’d made himself a very sincere promise not to let such things sway his judgement any more.
‘How much?’ asked Gabriel brightly.
God, he hadn’t even seen the arse in question and his mouth was getting ahead of his resolutions. Story of his life.
Both estate agent and Sharpe blinked at the non sequitur.
‘For the vacated room?’ Gabriel persisted with the cheerfulness, ‘How much?’
‘I–’
‘And how much space?’
‘Two bedrooms, kitchen, living room. One bathroom,’ said Sharpe, curious but wary. ‘On the top floor.’
‘Any room for storage?’
Sharpe regarded Gabriel quizzically, but with the beginnings of a smile. ‘The cupboard under the stairs to the attic. I don’t have much in it. Shared space in the downstairs laundry. The unexpectedly unoccupied bedroom is the larger of the two, faces the back. It’s basic, but it’s furnished. Some linens, though you might want to bring your own. Baxter used to eat in bed, the grubby reprobate.’
Gabriel found the faint lilt of a Scots accent deeply appealing, however fine or not the man’s arse turned out to be. ‘You own the flat?’
‘Me and the bank, 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
