He leans against the gate puffing on a cigarette. Martin unlocks the back door, flicks on the kettle. He switches off the outside security lamps. Fanta nips through the open louvers, no doubt ready for his food. Outside the sun is already bright and the ground is warm. Martin hobbles along the concrete, his feet still sore, shading his eyes from the brightness. Raymond’s car is running—he likes to keep the air conditioner on. They have spent many hours outside chatting by this gate with the engine running. ‘Boy, you look rough.’ He offers him a cigarette. In the last few days, Martin’s been smoking heavily. Georgia would usually give him a ticking-off, but she hasn’t seemed to notice. Raymond locks up the car—he won’t stay long—and follows Martin through the gates, around the side of the apartment, carrying a sweet scent of aftershave. Whenever Martin is coming from England, Raymond puts in an order for duty-free aftershave and cigarettes. The girls aren’t up yet. He’ll make coffee, they can sit outside.
