Chapter 3

Arthur showed me into the small living room—a very similar arrangement to mine, except there was less space. The sofa and a large coffee table took up a good portion of the available room, and a television set perched on top of a video recorder on a cupboard opposite. A stack of video tapes beside it all had Murray Franklin with various dates written on the labels.

I took a seat in one of the armchairs at the end of the room and listened to Arthur moving around the kitchen, bumping and dropping things, clattering around and quietly cursing. I couldn't help smiling. He was nervous—I doubted anyone had ever come in for a cup of coffee.

Eventually, he appeared with a small tray, looking flustered and awkward. A jug of milk and a bowl of sugar accompanied the two large mugs of coffee, and he placed the tray on the end of the table where I could reach it.

"Would you like milk and sugar?" he offered.

"Just milk, please."

"Ah. Sweet enough." He let out a loud laugh but stopped abruptly. He added milk to one of the mugs and passed it to me, then made his own with two sugars. His mug, I noticed, had Murray Franklin's logo on it.

"You watch Murray?" I asked. I realised I knew nothing about him except the brief history that explained the way he was.

"Yes, do you?"

"Sometimes."

He sat down at the end of the sofa nearest me, and immediately became animated. "I like That's Life. And his talk show. I would love to be on the show one day, but I don't suppose that will ever happen. I don't think I'm good enough."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a party clown, but I'm going to be a stand-up comedian. At least I hope to be. I've been practising. I'm going to perform at Pogo's, the comedy club, in a couple of weeks. You could come. If you wanted to."

"I could do, I guess." This surprised me. I couldn't imagine someone so shy and uncomfortable performing on a stage, but apparently this was his thing. "Can you tell me a joke?"

"Um—" He sipped his coffee, then put the mug down and ran his hand through his hair. He snatched up a notebook from the table and flicked through it. "Here's one. My therapist told me that a great way to let go of your anger is to write letters to people you hate and then burn them. I did that and I feel much better, but what I want to know is, do I keep the letters?"

I snorted, despite the nature of the joke. Sick humour amused me, but I couldn't help wondering if the general public would appreciate it.

Arthur put the book down. "I have a therapist, but she wouldn't tell me to write letters and burn people. She hardly says anything other than 'How was work today? Are you having any negative thoughts?' All I have are negative thoughts." He sighed and picked up his mug again. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about that."

"I do, if you want to talk about it."

Arthur drank his coffee slowly, staring at the floor and not speaking. I guessed he was considering whether to talk about his troubles, and I stayed silent.

"I have to take a lot of medication," he said eventually. "My mother—Penny—used to call me Happy instead of Arthur. She always told me to put on a happy face, and that I was intended to bring joy and laughter to the world. I put on a happy face, but I'm not happy. I've never been happy for one day in my entire life."

"You don't have to put on a happy face with me. You can just be yourself." My heart ached for him. I finished my coffee and put the mug down. "Do you take anti-depressants?"

"Yes. Several. And some other stuff. Anti-psychotics. I'm not a danger to you." He looked up suddenly and met my eyes. "I'm not a danger to anyone. Only myself."

"Have you hurt yourself before, Arthur?" I asked softly.

"Once or twice." He shrugged. "Not for a long time, though. It didn't help. I still felt bad. Nothing helps. I feel bad all the time."

"I'm sorry." I wished I could help in some way, but I didn't have any training in psychiatry. All I knew was that when I started to wallow in self-pity, which I did on occasion, I got mad with myself, gave myself a mental kick up the arse, and got on with things. A lot of people suffered more than me and couldn't do that. The only thing I could do was offer him friendship. Maybe having a friend to spend time with would help in some small way.

"We should talk about you." Arthur straightened up and forced a smile onto his lips. "I'm sure you're much more interesting that I am."

"I'm not so sure about that." I smiled back. "I've lived here nearly a year. You know where I work. I usually work day shifts and serve the lunches. Sometimes I get the evening shift, but not often. They don't like women working there in the evenings. It can be a rough place. Not that I can't take care of myself, but I'd rather not have to."

"Have you always done that type of work?"

"No, actually. I used to work in an office, doing the paperwork for social housing, arranging places for people, stuff like that. I, um, I was in a relationship with the man who ran the office. It didn't work out." I cleared my throat. "So I had to leave my job and my home. I applied for a few other office jobs, but then I decided to do something different—something more helpful than pushing a pen."

"Why did you have to leave your job? Did he fire you?"

"What? No. I just wanted to forget about him."

"Did he hurt you?" Arthur's thick brows drew together in a scowl.

"Not physically. He gambled. We had a joint bank account and he gambled away all our money. He ran up a lot of credit card debts, too. We were evicted from our house for not paying the rent. I didn't even know he wasn't paying it. So, this—" I gestured towards the door, indicating the building, "—is all I can afford for now."

"He was an idiot." Arthur's scowl deepened. "He had someone wonderful and he threw you away."

"I'm not sure I'm all that wonderful." I smiled wryly. "I have my bad points, just like anybody else."

"I can't imagine that. If you were mine, I'd treat you like a princess. I wouldn't ever hurt you or do anything to make you want to leave." Suddenly, he began to laugh—the wild, hysterical laughter that came upon him when he was upset or nervous. When it subsided into gasping, he choked out a few more words. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that. Stupid. You wouldn't want me. Nobody would."

"I would think anyone would be lucky to have you," I murmured. "You seem like a sweet guy, Arthur."

"Oh, no. Not really." He shook his head and reddened.

He barely spoke for the rest of the time it took me to finish my coffee. I asked him questions about his job as a party clown, and whether he had any other interests, but he answered in monosyllables, knees bouncing with anxiety, occasional laughs bursting from him.

"Thank you for the coffee." I got up.

"Oh! You're leaving?" He stood up, crest-fallen, shaking his head. "I'm not very good company."

"It's not that at all. I have some things I need to do. We could do this again sometime, if you want to."

"Really? I'd like that."

"You can knock on my door, you know," I added. "If you want a friend to talk to."

"Rather than let myself in. Of course." He barked with laughter, then clamped a hand over his mouth.

I touched his arm. "Stop worrying about that. It doesn't matter. I fixed the lock, by the way. One of the many things that need fixing around here."

He nodded. "That's good."

"If you run short of food again, you can come to the shelter," I reminded him, as I made my way to the door.

"Thank you. I should be all right."

I stepped out into the corridor and he hovered in the doorway, twisting his hands together.

"I'll see you soon, Arthur." I gave him a warm smile, then went to the lift. For once, it was waiting, and the doors opened immediately. He stayed there, watching, until the doors closed with me inside.

I thought about him a lot that night. I still didn't know him very well, but the more I saw, the more I liked. He had a lot of problems and I filled up with sorrow when I remembered what he'd told me about his childhood and the cause of his mental health issues, and I felt sad for how unhappy he was now, and how lonely. But somewhere amongst those feelings of pity, there was something else that I tried to squash down.

If I'd met Arthur in any other circumstances—in a bar, in the park, at work—I'd have seen him as an attractive man I could imagine myself dating. He was good-looking, with his soft brown wavy hair and green eyes. I liked tall men, and he was certainly that, although he was much too thin. He was polite and gentle, and he could make me laugh. On the rare occasions he smiled genuinely, it lit up his whole face and his eyes sparkled.

I doubted Arthur had ever dated anyone. Would he even be capable of having a relationship with a woman? Or a man, if that were his thing? I guessed he liked women, simply from the way he'd said, "if you were mine," but that might not have meant anything. He bought me flowers, but they were "thank you" flowers. Something told me he knew the colour meant that, or he'd looked it up.

I'd been alone a long time—a long time for me, anyway. But did I really want to think along those lines? If Arthur was even able to date, did I want such a vast amount of baggage in my life?

"Damn it, woman, you've only had a couple of conversations with him!" I scoffed. "You don't know anything about him. And now you sound as nutty as him, talking to yourself." I decided to think of him as a budding friend and put anything else out of my mind.

I didn't see Arthur for almost a week after that. He didn't follow me, at least not that I was aware of, and he didn't knock on my door. As I travelled home from work on the train one day—later than usual as I'd needed to help with dinner preparations—I wondered if I should call at Arthur's apartment and check if he was okay. He might want to talk to me but be too shy to do anything about it.

I glanced around the almost-empty train carriage as it pulled into a station. One other woman sat at the far end to the left, and three young men, clearly drunk, staggered up the steps and sat opposite me. One was eating a carton of French fries. I lowered my gaze and ignored them.

"Hey! Miss! Want a French fry?"

I glanced up again and shook my head. "No, thank you."

"They're really good!"

"I'm sure."

"Maybe she wants something else," one of his companions said with a giggle.

"Yeah, maybe she wants some of this." The third man grabbed his crotch.

I slid my hand into my coat pocket, thumbed the cap off my can of mace, and gripped it firmly. I hated these rich people, full of entitlement, convinced they could behave however they wanted and get away with it.

The train stopped again to let on another passenger, and the other woman left, but I didn't take any notice. I kept my lowered eyes lifted just enough to watch what the three young men were doing.

"You're not very friendly, are you?" the one with the French fries said, and flicked a fry at me. It bounced off the front of my coat and fell to the floor.

One of the others pulled a hip flask out of his pocket and held it out to me. "Have a drink. Might loosen you up. Then we can all have a go."

I scowled and ignored them. At the other end of the carriage, a screech of hysterical laughter drew my attention. A quick glance left, and my gaze lit on a clown—someone dressed as a clown—with a painted face and a wig of bright green hair. The laughter continued and he rocked back and forth in his seat. Arthur.

The laughter drew the attention of the three guys away from me, and one got to his feet. "Hey! What's so fucking funny?" He began to walk down the carriage towards Arthur, and his two companions followed.

Arthur's face, even at that distance and painted with a fake red smile, took on an expression of fear, but his laughter continued. One of the young men began to sing Send in the Clowns, as he danced and swung himself around one of the poles near Arthur. One of the others sat beside Arthur and pulled off his wig.

"Shit," I muttered. I pulled the can of mace free of my pocket and stood up.

Arthur fumbled with a bag he had beside him, still laughing wildly. One of the men snatched the bag and threw it to his companion. Arthur lurched up to try to grab it, but the man who had been sitting beside him flung his arms around Arthur, pinning his arms to his sides. Still laughing, Arthur kicked out at the man in front of him.

"Leave him alone!" I shouted as I charged down the carriage.

The man who had been kicked at threw a punch. The one holding Arthur let go, and Arthur fell to the ground, then curled himself up to protect his head and privates as two of the men began to kick him.

"You fucking bastards!" I cried.

"Ah, look. Little miss miserable has come to the rescue." It was the last thing he said. A moment later he bent double, screaming, rubbing his eyes.

"Who's next?" I turned on the second man—the one about to grab me—and sprayed him in the face. Screeching and coughing, he fell back.

"You fucking bitch!"

The third man faced me, then thought twice about it, and helped one of his companions as the train slowed to a stop and the doors opened. In seconds, the three of them were gone. No one else entered the carriage. I put the mace back in my pocket and dropped to my knees.

"Arthur!"

"Audra?" He uncurled himself and lifted his head. His nose was bleeding, his clown makeup smeared, his eyes wide and scared.

"Yes, it's me. Come on, let's get you up." I gripped his hand and helped him sit up. He winced and groaned. "Shit, how badly are you hurt?"

"Just bruised, I think."

"Let me see. If you have a broken rib, you shouldn't move. It could puncture a lung."

"It's usually me who's the pessimist." He laughed softly, but it stopped after a second and tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Oh, Arthur." I touched his face, then turned my attention to his clothes. "We have a few minutes before our stop. Let me check you, okay? I'm trained in first aid."

"Okay." He leaned back against the seat, not trying to stop the flow of tears as they dripped onto the collar of his shirt, turning the white fabric purple as they mixed with the blue paint around his eyes and the big red smile.

I unfastened his yellow waistcoat, then the shirt, and carefully felt my way around his ribcage. They were so prominent, I probably would have seen a break as well as felt it, but there seemed to be no damage other than bruising, as he said. His pale skin was already livid in places.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No."

"You think you can get up?"

"Yes."

I helped him and slowly he rose to his feet, just as the train reached our stop. He fastened his shirt, picked up his bag, and we descended slowly to the platform. "What happened to your jacket?"

"I don't know. Maybe they took it."

I hadn't seen the checked jacket he'd been wearing when I helped him. I tucked my hand through his arm and walked slowly at his side as me made our way to the long flight of steps up to our street.

"You think you can manage these? We can get a cab and drive around the other way," I suggested.

"I'll be all right." He lifted his free hand to wipe his wet face. The palm came away smeared with paint, and his red smile twisted into a grotesque grimace where it had begun to dissolve and spread across his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry this happened. Those guys were arseholes."

"It's not the first time." He hung his head, gasping as he struggled up each step. "I'm glad you were there. What did you do to them?"

"I have a can of mace in my pocket."

"Shame it wasn't a gun."

"Well, I do have a knife, should the need arise."

"You know how to take care of yourself."

"Yes. We all have to, where I work. You never know. Sometimes people come in and they're drugged up or drunk. I've only ever had one situation that went bad, but we have to be prepared."

"You must think I'm pathetic," Arthur said suddenly. "Anyone else would have done something to fight back."

"There were three of them," I pointed out. "You tried to kick them. Besides, at least half of the population wouldn't know how to fight back. In a situation like that, it's easy to freeze; to hope it stops, or to go numb with fear. Don't beat yourself up over it."

Arthur squawked with laughter. "Don't beat myself up. No, I'll leave that to them."