Portobello by Ruth Rendell

Gemma? It all came back to that, that was what
set it going. He wasn't the sort of bloke to smack a girl around
or he thought he wasn't. But that time . . . She had told him he
ought to get a job, any job, it didn't matter much what, so long
as he could stop being a Jobseeker. Not all those employers he
had interviews with could have rejected him, he must be setting
out to make himself unemployable on purpose. As for her, once
the baby was at school she'd get work, she'd be along at the Job
Centre the first day she'd dropped him off at primary school. As
things were, she didn't want Lance under her feet all day and
every day. It wasn't as if he'd babysit for her while she went to
the gym or had a coffee with one of her girlfriends. All he'd do,
she said, was sit about with the telly on like the lazy layabout
he was. It was when she said those words that he saw red and
punched her.
    At first he thought he'd broken her jaw but it wasn't as bad as
that. Her eye went dark red and, when she'd sworn at him, she
put her hand up to her mouth, then held it out to him to show
the bloody tooth he'd knocked out. He was sorry at once, he said
he didn't know what came over him and he'd never do it again.
    'Too right you won't,' she said. 'You won't get the bloody chance.
If you're not out of my house in fifteen fucking minutes I'm getting
Dwayne round here to put you out.'
    Dwayne was her brother, an amateur heavyweight boxer and
rumoured to be a bare-knuckle fighter as well. Lance had got
out, though not before Dwayne had roughed him up a bit, and
eventually he had ended up with Uncle Gib. But the regrets never
ended. The funny thing was he hadn't lost his temper a single
time, not once, since then. He'd been a different man.
    In the evenings they sat in front of Auntie Ivy's black-and-white
television set. Lance found the telly soothing, it didn't much
matter to him what was on, though he drew the line – when he
was in a position to draw the line – at documentaries. They
reminded him of school. The great drawback to watching was
Uncle Gib. He chain-smoked. He talked through every programme,
especially the sexy ones, and they were mostly sexy or violent or
both. Uncle Gib called everything disgusting or ungodly and,
puffing away, said it was liable to bring fire from heaven down on
Channel Four and he was particularly incensed by what Lance
liked best, girls with not many clothes on. The two of them sat
on Auntie Ivy's sagging mock-leather sofa, its seat cushions cracked
and wrinkled like Uncle Gib's face, while Lance stared in silence
and Uncle Gib fidgeted about, sometimes shaking his fist at the
screen and shouting, 'Harlot!' or, 'You wait till the Day of
Judgement.'
    Lance's favourite sitcom had just begun when the letter box
rattled. Uncle Gib went off to answer it. It was his house, as he
often said, and he wasn't having Lance answering his door. Lance
was watching the female lead, a beautiful girl mysteriously wearing
a bikini in the living room in the depths of winter, trying to persuade
her dad to let her boyfriend stay the night, when Uncle Gib came
back with two men, one of whom Lance recognised at once as
the guy with the moustache he had seen on Gemma's balcony.
The other man had a red face and quite a belly on him, though
he was young, no more than twenty-something. 'Ian,' he said. 'Ian
Pollitt. This here's Feisal Smith but you can call him Fize.'
    Lance got up. 'What d'you want?'
    'My mate and me, we've come here to tell you,' said Ian Pollitt,
staring at Lance the way a policeman might.
    This seemed to be the signal for Uncle Gib to switch off the
telly. He turned back to Lance, said, 'I don't know what this is
about but don't think I'm going. This is my house and I'm staying
to hear what he's got to say.'
    'Suit yourself,' said Fize. 'I'm not bothered.' It was the first time
he had spoken. He had a funny accent, not like the Indians but
not English either.
    'Sit down,' said Uncle Gib with the nearest to graciousness
he