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house now, helping him with a new project. ok if i stay here tonight? I think it will be a late one …
    Again a reply came back with supersonic speed, making me feel worse.
    ok love … but please come home for dinner tomorrow night. gab is dying to see you. we both are. maybe we could ask ryan over too. i’ll call him in the morning. mum xx

    Cal had given Repro enough money to set himself up in a tall, narrow terrace house near City Hall. The place had a front door, just like anywhere else, but Repro was still trying to get used to the idea of using it. We’d helped him paint the place and tidy it up. We’d even built a loft on the top floor, which he’d started to fill with what remained of his collection. The rest of the place was clean and tidy and spacious—far from what Repro was used to!
    I pulled a face under the front sensor light when I felt Repro peering at me through the peephole.
    â€˜The filing cabinet entrance sounded cooler,’ I said, when he opened the door.
    â€˜I think so too,’ said Repro with a laugh. He moved aside and let me through.
    I took a few steps and stopped, staring around in disbelief.
    Repro came up beside me and rocked backand forth proudly. ‘Once a collector, always a collector!’ he proclaimed.
    I didn’t recognise the place. We could have been in a hideout in the complex underground rail network, or in a dank lair only accessible by canoe. Repro’s mountains of stuff had returned.
    â€˜But where’s the furniture we bought? The lounge, the coffee table? The bookshelves? I can’t see anything but … stuff!’ There were books on astronomy, boxes of old film reels, shipping magazines, wooden owl statues. And jars of … jars of— ‘Repro, what are these things?’
    â€˜Eyeballs,’ Repro replied. ‘Well, glass eyes. Everything else is still here, don’t worry,’ he said, tugging back a tartan picnic rug like a magician. ‘See?’
    Papers fluttered to the floor and reels of cotton in a rainbow of colours rolled away as he revealed part of the new lounge.
    â€˜Cuppa?’ he asked, tiptoeing over the junk to where the kitchen once was.
    â€˜Um, no thanks,’ I said. I picked up a handful of mail that was scattered on the floor at my feet and flicked through the envelopes aimlessly.
    â€˜So, what seems to be the trouble? Or is this just a social visit?’ Repro asked as he gestured towards an old-fashioned printing press, wanting me to help him move it.
    â€˜It’s Cal,’ I replied. ‘He’s not buried in here somewhere, is he?’
    â€˜Afraid not. Why? What’s happened?’
    I explained the missing Cal situation as we inched the press over to its new resting spot near a window, kicking stuff out of the way in the process.
    Repro listened intently. He brushed the dust from his hands as he stood there, nodding solemnly, in his fluffy yellow dressing gown.
    â€˜Well, if I hear anything, I’ll send one of my pigeons out with the message,’ he said.
    I eyed him suspiciously. Nothing would surprise me with this guy.
    â€˜Just messing with you. I don’t have a pigeon coop … yet,’ Repro said. ‘But I will let you know if I hear from young Cal. You’ll let me know too, when he shows up? I hope he hasn’t met with foul play,’ he added.
    â€˜So, have you tracked down your mum yet?’ I asked, changing the subject. Cal had told me just the other day that Repro was afraid his mum wouldn’t want to know him, after all the years that had passed, and all his run-ins with the law.
    Repro shook his head. ‘No, no, no. Hasn’t been time for that.’
    â€˜Maybe soon,’ I said, getting ready to leave.‘By the way,’ I added, ‘who’s Albert? I saw the name on those letters over there. Is he the guy who lived here before you moved in?’
    â€˜Ah, no,’ he replied bashfully.