Read The Breezes for Free Online Page B

late, and that is all there is to it.
    For the sake of variety, I climb up to the bed – climb, because the bed is a king-sized bunk which hangs from the high ceiling on big white-painted chains. When Angela first moved here, three years ago, she and I had a private sentimental nickname for this loft: the love-nest, we used to call it.
    I lie down on my back with closed eyes. I breathe deeply.
    There is so much room up here that three people could stretch out in comfort. In fact, it took Angela and me a little time to become accustomed to the space. In the year before she moved in here – our first year together – when I was living at home with Pa, we did our sleeping together at her old place, a cheap flat by the docks. Angela had a single bed, one as narrow as a train berth, and when the underground passed below and sent vibrations through the house, the two of us lay there rocking like journeyers on an overnight express. Who is to say that the sensation of travel was not an appropriate one? After all, we were going places. I was about to embark on my chair-making venture and Angela had just started her MBA, and like motorists entranced and quickened by new cities tantalizingly pledged on highway signboards, during those shaking nights our quickly looming futures kept us awake for hours, talking, talking. Fired up, emboldened by the rich proximity of our goals, we travelled easily through the hours of darkness, all the while wrapped up together like a package, our legs intertwined, our arms locked into bear hugs. We hung on like this all night. We had to – the bed was so small that we couldn’t roll over without falling out.
    I open my eyes. Jesus, I hope she’s all right. I hope nothing’s happened to her.
    I rise with a start and climb down the ladder. I’m damned if I am going to worry. The chances of Angela not safely returning home must be at least a million to one. Only a professional nail-biter like Pa would get worked up by those kinds of odds.
    But if I were him, I would be fearful of long shots, too.
    The incident in the pub this morning. Now that’s what I call a dark horse.
    Pa and I had just sucked down the remains of our beers and were about to make a move when, pushing through the crush, a man suddenly came forward and pointed at Pa. ‘I know you,’ he said. He kept pointing. ‘It’s Breeze, isn’t it? You’re him. You’re Gene Breeze, aren’t you?’
    Pa glanced at me nervously and said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am.’ He turned to the man. ‘How – how can I help you?’
    â€˜I thought I recognized you,' the man said. ‘I said to myself, I know that face from somewhere.’
    It is important, here, to point something out: the most remarkable thing about the newcomer was his size. He was a midget. He could not have been more than four feet tall.
    I picked up my coat and said, ‘Let’s go, Pa.’
    The man said, ‘You want to know if I’ve got any problems, Breeze? You want to know if I’ve got any complaints? Well, pal, I do. I’ve got a whole pile of fucking complaints.’
    He put his beer down and stood at the end of the table. Pa was cornered.
    Pa said, ‘How can I help you, Mr   … '
    â€˜Don’t worry about my name, Breeze, you’re the one with questions to answer.’ Again he jabbed his index finger in Pa’s direction. ‘You got that, Breeze? You’re the one doing the answering around here.’
    I could not believe it. This runt, this titch, was threatening two fully grown men.
    â€˜How is it,’ the man demanded, ‘that I’m late for work almost every day of the week? Eh, Breeze? How is it that I spend two grand a year on fucking travel and still I get to stand in a crowded, dirty train every morning – if I’m lucky?’ He wiped the small wet hole of his mouth and started moving towards Pa. ‘Well? I only