Gareth’s rooms were on the second floor of a building on the far end of Church street. The sitting room John was shown into looked out over the bustling street below. Through a narrow gap between the houses across one could just make out a narrow stretch of the harbour with its silver reflections in constant motion.  On the far right a steep path led down to Tate Hill pier along the slum dwellings on that side of town. That unfortunate view alone probably decreased the value of the rooms, but for a reporter with a thirst for drama those rooms were practically a box seat.
 
Although the space was modest, great care had been taken in its furnishing, although its success was a matter for debate. The lower half of the room had been wainscoted with a dark frame and lighter panels. Above the wainscot the walls had been covered with a rather dizzying Morris wallpaper. The heavy, blue and straw coloured curtains, draped around the windows and doors were reminiscent of tapestries with yet another flowery Arts and Crafts design. The wooden floor was only partly covered by carpets, which offered some relief to the weary eye. There were small tables, a low sofa with only the seat and arms upholstered, so that the intricate woodwork of the backrest was visible, and two deep armchair with some of the similar woodwork showing in the feet and multiple rails under the armrests. There were flowers, ferns, oriental vases, oriental fans, and copies of famous paintings. On one side of the room stood a heavy bookcase, generously filled with bound volumes – novels in English and French, and one or two Latin and Greek works; dictionaries; books on grammar and literary analysis – to finish the parade.
 
“Have a seat,” Gareth offered. “I’ll be just a moment.” And he receded to his bedroom to wash his face and inspect his injuries. “Fuck you,” his voice came from behind the door when he inspected his jaw in the mirror.
 
He returned half a minute later. “Drink?”