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The house had stood empty for as long as Chris could remember, like many houses in the street, and Chris had taken his pot and fuck-the-world music over there, stood in the rooms where people must have lived and loved ages ago, and he'd scribbled soulful poetry on the walls with crayons he'd taken off his sister.
What is the freedom you speak of, tired old chestnuts cracked down the middle in blue, and then he'd seen Ice Age and he'd drawn Scrat underneath right in the middle of the sitting room.
He was splayed in an old armchair with his notebook on his knees, spliff in the corner of his mouth, one earbud from his iPod headphones in one ear, the other hanging down the front of his shirt and blaring metallic music, contemplating the fair-trade coffee in the Starbucks cup by his left foot, when the front door opened with a bang and a cuss.
"Oi, Ianto, electricity's tits up here," a man said and clicked a plastic switch up and down audibly.
"What did you expect? Jack's idea of back-up plans are this and cottages that have fallen off cliffs years ago," a second man replied.
Thumps of things being dropped on the floor followed. Chris grabbed for the bag of pot and his notebook, looked hurriedly around him as he killed the spliff on the floor. The door to the backgarden stood open, and, fumbling to turn off his music, he made for it to escape. His foot hooked into the Starbucks cup and upturned it, spilling it across the floor. The same moment, he got caught in torchlight.
"You shouldn't be here," the first one said.
"That shouldn't be here," Ianto said, and the torchlight traced a path to the Starbucks cup, making the green logo blare accusingly, then traveled along the walls, turning his teenage poetry into bleeding heart art in shades of piss yellow. "Fancy," Ianto commented, then zero'd in on the spliff. "Very."
"You're not registered here, mate," the other said under his breath. Something rattled in the front room, the two exchanged a glance, then fell silent.
"Electricity's fine, main power's just off," Chris said after a beat, fingers clamped around the bag of pot he was trying to shove behind his back and out of sight.
"Ah," Ianto replied.
"Thought this stood empty."
"Hm."
"I, uh..." Chris broke off when Ianto stared at his drawing of Scrat and the chestnut with scrutiny.
"Yes," Ianto said. He zero'd the torchlight in on the spliff again then up at Chris's face. "Top secret. Lips zipped. You can have it back in a few months. Art, and all."
Chris looked from one to the other, heart thumping, nodded sharply, then bolted through the backdoor. On his way across the grass he only heard the first man moan, "Why'd you let him keep the pot then?"