Gents
Ezekial Murphy, a West Indian immigrant, takes up a new job as an attendant at a large London lavatory. The supervisor, Josiah Reynolds, and Jason, a third West Indian, explain that their main problem is the casual sex which takes place in the cubicles.Under pressure from the council authorities to reduce such behaviour, they expect Ez to help them in 'cleaning out the swamp'.Each of the protagonists brings his own moral assumptions to the question. Ez, a devout Adventist, is shocked by such revelations. Jason, a Rastafarian, believes that this kind of sex occurs because 'Whitey' is inherently corrupt. Reynolds, who takes more pragmatic view, is concerned to prevent further illicit encounters in case the council attempts to close the establishment down. Subtly influenced by the women in their lives, Ez, Reynolds and Jason - their future employment prospects in jeopardy – must take a fresh look at their work and at themselves.
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GENTS
A novel
Warwick Collins
Published by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Marion Boyars Publishers
This edition published in 2007 by The Friday Project
Text © 2007 Warwick Collins
Warwick Collins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781905548767
Ebook Edition © JULY 2016 ISBN 9780007391783 Version: 2016-07-18
To Scott Pack
CONTENTS
At Charing Cross the two underground trains passed each other like tongues of flame. Ez Murphy saw, in the window’s reflection between a young girl and an elderly woman, his own face dark with the lights shining white on his broad cheekbones.
The trains roared and razored in the confined tunnel. As they crossed, his faded image, obscure against the glossy dark, was thrown into sudden prominence by the rush of white lights behind it. The faces of the two women became ghostly, obliterated by the surging luminescence.
He was in his early forties, well-dressed, stocky, broad-shouldered. In the reflection opposite, his hands floated up to adjust his tie, a startling negative against the washed white of his collar. The two trains passed. During the ensuing silence the faces of the women were restored again, two white flowers.
The train traversed several other stations before it finally slid to a stop with a brief squeal of acquiescence. The doors rumbled open. Ez stepped onto the dimly lit platform and walked to the sign marked EXIT. It was eight twenty-two by the station clock. Travelling up the escalator, he put his ticket in the machine, then paused in the concourse. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to see daylight. Walking up a flight of grey flagged stairs, he stepped out into the street.
Drifts of London sunlight touched his eyes; a flock of pigeons wheeled above the buildings. Traffic fumes hung over the city.
He approached a sign on a wrought iron stairway which said GENTS. Straightening his tie, he walked down the steps. At the bottom, he faced a turnstile. He glanced around for assistance, but could see no one. Shrugging his shoulders, he shifted the change in his pocket and put ten pence in the slot. Then he walked through the turnstile and paused to glance around him.
The interior was faced with geometric tiles, white with a motif of green. The floors were meticulously clean. In the background he could hear the occasional hiss of the fountains. On the right of the entrance, set back discreetly into a wall of rough, whitewashed plaster, was a green-painted door marked MANAGER.
Ez adjusted his collar and knocked.
After a while, the door opened. The man facing him was as tall as a beanpole. His clothes hung on his skinny frame. He had that almost albino whiteness of certain Jamaicans on the south side of the island. Standing in the doorway, he considered Ez for a moment.
“Mr Murphy?”
“That’s right.”
“Josiah Reynolds.” He seemed to pause for several seconds, and Ez gained the impression he was trying to work out something. “Come in, come in.”
Reynolds stood aside. Ez stepped into a small, neat office with a wooden table and several folding chairs. Against the wall was a filing cabinet, on top of which was a shelf with some grey box files. The only decoration on the walls was a white calendar without pictures, covered by the heavy black print of dates. Ez gained the impression of a pervasive austerity.
Reynolds picked up a clipboard from his desk. He lifted a ball-point from his top pocket.
“Murphy,” he read out. “Ezekiel Stanislaus.”
Ez nodded.
Reynolds smiled, as though in recognition. He indicated one of the wooden seats.
“Sit down, man.”
Reynolds took several paces back and leaned, half seated, on the edge of the table. His long bony wrists emerged from the cuffs. Raising his clipboard, Reynolds consulted his notes.
