Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  ‘I don’t want your watch.’

  She twisted the pen ever so slightly. He gave a strange whimpering groan.

  ‘Get the coat off,’ she said, ‘the jacket.’

  He shrugged them off. She grabbed them with her free hand and let them fall behind her.

  ‘Now. Drop your trousers.’

  There was a burst of noise as the pub door opened.

  ‘Don’t turn round!’

  They both stood there, not moving, listening to the voices fading away down the street. She twisted the pen another half turn. He jerked sideways against the wall, sobbing.

  ‘Quiet! ‘She pressed slightly harder. She could see how tight the skin was about the tip, creases running down towards the nib from all sides.

  He had his trousers round his ankles. Clumsily, he lifted one foot and shook it free, then the other. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘I’ll get money, more money.’

  ‘I don’t want your money.’ She kept her voice deep.

  ‘Money’s everything. You got money, they come running. Bitches. You can do anything you like with them, anything at all.’

  She jabbed at him with all her strength and felt the resistance give and the metal cylinder slide into his neck, like a skewer sliding into meat. He jerked forward, ripping it out of her hand, doubling up. The pen stuck out of his neck like the hilt of a knife. She slapped her hands against him, feeling them smack against the soft flesh, braced herself and shoved at him as hard as she could. He fell forward onto the cobblestones and lay there groaning, twisting his head from side to side, the pale flesh of his thighs splayed wide.

  She reached down and snatched up the clothes. Then she took a pace forward and laid her fingers on the pen. She could feel a faint vibration, rhythmic, the beat of his pulse. She was hardly breathing at all. She gripped tighter and pulled. It slid smoothly out. A dark pool of blood welled up, spilled over and ran down onto the cobblestones. She backed away against the cardboard boxes, grabbed at the stack and pulled them down on him, turned and ran.

  10

  She was on Waterloo Bridge, leaning over the parapet out near the middle. It was late and they’d turned off the streetlights. The water surged under her, loud in the darkness. Once a taxi cruised past, slowed for her and accelerated away. She could smell the river, dank, cold, salt as blood.

  She had no idea of the time. The sky above her was filled with clouds, the moon somewhere faraway up above them. She’d been running, through streets and alleys, onwards, between streetlights, trying to keep away from the people, all those faces staring at her. She dodged round a man in a business suit who waved a wine bottle as he grabbed at her with a black-gloved hand. She ran, zig-zagging through crowds, onto a brightly-lit street, into traffic that jerked to a halt, a driver getting out of his car to shout something. Once she crossed a park, grass under her feet and a gravel path, a long dark building on the skyline. She’d run along by the river in darkness with the gush of the water beside her for what seemed miles. She stood on the bridge, gasping, her feet aching, the breath sobbing in her throat. She stared upstream, over the dark water, past the bulk of the Houses of Parliament, away into the sky, beyond all this. She felt sick.

  They’d find him, they’d check his diary, Sita Devi would talk to them or George and they’d be after her. She had to think straight. How did you go on the run? Where was her passport, did you need a passport? Were there still countries she could hide, where they wouldn’t find her? Would people think she was a refugee?

  She’d lost most of the clothing, but she still had the jacket and the pen. She looked down at it, snug in her hand. No blood on it at all. Hard to think how powerful it had made her. She should drop it now, watch it cut into the dark water with no sound, like a dart. She clicked the point out and back and slipped it into her pocket. It hardly showed.

  The jacket was well-made, nearly new. Armani. She lifted it and felt the weight of the wallet in the pocket. She drew out the wallet and let the jacket slide over the parapet. It fell, opening into a ghostly shape before disappearing into the water.

  She opened the wallet. It was stuffed with fifty-pound notes, a thick wad. Maybe Webster didn’t like to keep it in the bank; too many records. Maybe this was just small change. Her fingers touched something caught up with it, small and thin and hard: the wristwatch he’d said was Franck Muller.

  She held the watch in her hand and felt it ticking against her palm, like a pulse. The second hand, thin as a hair, swept on. She rolled the watch over and made out ‘RW for services rendered – you bastard!’ engraved on the back of the case in elaborate italics. She held it there for a while. £10,000? £20,000? Then she flipped it back, raised her hand and smashed the watch face down onto the concrete parapet of the bridge. Fragments of glass and metal shimmered silently down, into the water below. A footstep sounded on the bridge somewhere behind her, in the darkness. She slipped the money and the shattered watch into her jacket pocket beside the pen and hurled the wallet as far as she could into the darkness.

  She started walking south as fast as she could, trying to keep where the shadows were darkest. She heard the noise again and looked back, but she couldn’t see anyone. She half-ran for a few paces then fell into a walk. She felt the breath coming in her throat.

  She was on the embankment, the bulk of the National Theatre rearing up behind her, a waterfall of Christmas lights cascading down it. She felt exhausted, she wanted to be somewhere dark where she could hide. She moved towards the shadows under the bridge, stopping to catch her breath. There was someone standing there, Paul. He stepped forward.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be OK.’

  She halted and stood there looking at him.

  ‘Don’t follow me.’

  He looked down. ‘I want to. I seen you running. You don’t half go.’

  ‘It’s not a joke.’ She was so tired she could hardly stand up. She leant against the stone. ‘Just forget you saw me.’

  She heard footsteps walking firmly towards them. ‘Come on,’ said Paul. ‘Quiet.’

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the shadows under the bridge. The stonework was cold and rough against her hand. She felt he was on her side. He led her round a corner and up a stone stairway. The boots came to a halt.

  They could hear voices. Paul crouched, drawing her down beside him, and they peered over the parapet. She saw two policemen, bulky in their stab vests, down below them. The policemen looked round and one of them flashed a torch under the bridge. Then they moved off, in step, towards the National Theatre.

  ‘City of London,’ said Paul, ‘Like the ones in the café that night, City of London. You can tell by the red and white arm-bands. What are they doing here? Their area’s north of the river. Like I said, you need someone to look out for you.’

  She lay back against the bridge. The cold of the pavement seeped into her. Her whole body ached, she felt she could hardly move. She still had Paul’s hand clasped tightly in hers.

  ‘Paul,’ she said. ‘I think I just killed someone.’

  He put his arm round her. ‘You ain’t a killer. You just ain’t.

  ‘I stabbed him in the neck. With a metal biro. I could feel his pulse through it.’ She found she was crying. She didn’t want to cry, she wiped at her eyes. He felt in his pocket and pulled something out.

  ‘Here.’ He squatted in front of her and stroked the tissue across her face, across her eye-lids very carefully, very gently. She felt his thin fingers caressing her across her cheeks. For a moment the delicacy of his finger-tips was all she could think of. ‘We gotta be careful. Who was he? Does anyone know?’

  She held onto his arm. ‘You don’t know him. His name’s Webster, he’s some bastard in the city. He tried to rape me.’

  Paul whistled. After a moment he said: ‘Webster. You’re some
girl. We got to think this through.’

  ‘Best thing is you forget you met me. I’ll be OK.’ She reached out for the parapet but didn’t have the strength to pull herself to her feet.

  ‘I said I was looking out for you. I want to.’

  ‘I’ve made enough trouble already.’

  ‘You’re all in, girl. You need somewhere to rest. You better lean on me.’

  He slipped his arm round her waist, stood up and helped her to her feet. She felt she’d done something irrevocable, something wrong, and she’d feel the guilt for the rest of her life, but now someone understood and would forgive her. She slung her right arm round his shoulders and they moved slowly forward.

  11

  Huge clouds filled the sky and the moon was a sallow glow behind them. Paul had his arm round her waist, supporting her. They’d been walking for a long time. They’d gone east, mainly along alleyways between the buildings, and away from the Thames. Now they were in an area of run-down four storey terraces. They’d been built for the gentry when this was a fashionable neighbourhood, stone steps to the front door, portico, attics for the servants and a mews at the back for the carriage.

  Paul halted and glanced down the street. ‘Nearly there.’ He half-pulled half-led her into a passageway, dark between terrace blocks. She could see they were empty. The windows were boarded up and there were graffiti along the wall, with pound signs trampling on people. The building they were next to had once been a shop. She could make out the sign: Minsky’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters, in faded gold paint above the shuttered window.

  ‘It’s Webster’s,’ he said. ‘The whole block. Finger in every pie.’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘Thank you, Mr Webster – bastard. You’re not the only one hates him’

  He leaned against a wooden gate which gave and swung open. They slipped through it into an overgrown garden, with walls on all sides. He pushed the gate back and jammed a plank of wood against it.

  Ade leaned on the wall and looked up at the house. She could make out a dim light, flickering like a candle in one of the windows. Paul whistled twice. She heard a noise and the back door was pushed open.

  ‘Come on,’ said a voice and a large man with a beard stood on the threshold. She recognised Johnno. He stood staring at her.

  ‘It’s all right, Johnno,’ said Paul, gripping his arm. ‘She’s on our side.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just… you told us this place was safe. No-one knew.’

  ‘It’s all right. Let’s get inside.’

  Paul took her hand and led her through the door.

  The room was lit by two candles on the wooden table in front of her. It seemed to be crammed full of people, all of them staring at her. There was the close smell of too many people in one place. She could hear whispering; they were talking about her but she was so tired she couldn’t take it all in. She was warm, sitting at a table, leaning against Paul. She’d have to tell him everything: about Webster, about the alleyway, the fold of flesh at his neck, the way the pen felt when she gripped it in her hand. She’d do that soon. Outside, the moon showed through a crack in the clouds and she could see more of the garden through the window. There was a greenhouse against the back wall. One of the panes was shattered but she could see that the wood was newly-painted. Some leeks poked up in a tilled plot next to it where the overgrowth had been cut back.

  She looked from face to face, trying to remember names. There was Eileen, painfully thin with deep lines each side of her mouth and intense dark eyes, her fingers always restless, always picking; Mariska, slender, with paint on her jeans, who waved and smiled at her; and Ilah, dark, effusive and deep-voiced. Ade later found out he could sing in a way that lifted your soul out of your body. Flat Alan looked up, grunted and gave her one brilliant smile, then hid again in the hood of his jacket. Ethan, ex-army, muttered ‘Hi’ and went on working on something in the corner. And there was Johnno, of course, who had remembered the fifty pounds and was still saying thanks.

  ‘Come on Johnno, cup of tea, let’s have a cup of tea,’ said Paul. ‘And bread if there is any?’

  ‘Yeah, I been baking,’ said Ilah. ‘Paul always loves my bread,’ he told Ade, ‘Nothing better.’

  He placed a loaf and a knife in front of them and, as an afterthought, a small block of butter on a dish. Paul drew the knife across the loaf and the smell of fresh bread welled up, embracing all of them.

  ‘Hey,’ said Paul. ‘We gonna eat!’

  That’s a slice each, thought Ade. If you’re lucky.

  Johnno slapped down the mugs of tea.

  ‘This is so good,’ said Ade, drawing in a full breath. She couldn’t help smiling. Mariska and Ilah smiled back at her. The others were busy with the food. She began to feel more alive. They would look after her. They didn’t know what she’d done. Paul would help her, they wouldn’t find out. Maybe they wouldn’t care. She’d find somewhere to hide.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Paul. ‘There’s always more, more for my friends in our house.’

  He waved an arm embracing all of them and Ade saw him, king in his castle. She wasn’t going to tell him that the milk was sour. She drank the tea anyway.

  ‘I used to run the homeless project,’ said Paul to her. ‘That’s where I met everyone. Then they took the grant away. So we were all out on the street. Then we found this place.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Johnno. ‘Took it away.’

  He thrust his head close to them.

  ‘S’all right, Johnno.’ Paul slipped his arm round Johnno’s shoulders and pulled his head down. ‘We’re here now.’

  He turned to Ade.

  ‘It’s not like most people think, you know. We all work. Eileen washes up at that café, Ilah’s on the embankment all day everyday outside the Festival Hall doing the statues, Alan helps out in the soup kitchen, Mariska’s an artist. There are waiters here, and a shop assistant, and casual workers, labourers, all the people London needs. Johnno can carry a hod on a good day, can’t you Johnno?’

  Johnno grinned and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Paul opened his hands.

  ‘Just none of us can afford the rent with the likes of Webster around. Or the deposit.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ a small brindled man with sharp eyes and a pointed face said. He had been sitting in the shadow at the foot of the stairs the whole time, watching. ‘That’s why we gotta be careful.’

  Ade couldn’t see much of the man’s face, just the bright points of his eyes fixed on her. Then he leaned forward and she saw black hair and pockmarks all down one cheek.

  ‘You’ve got money. What you want to come here for?’ He spoke with a Belfast accent.

  ‘Don’t worry, Casey, Ade’s all right.’ Paul said. ‘She’s with me.’

  ‘Yeah she’s with Paul,’ said Johnno and a murmur ran round.

  ‘But we don’t want no-one else. We’re OK here.’

  Casey was on his feet glaring round like he’d take on all of them. A shadow ran across the room. Ade realised someone had walked past the window. There was a double knock and the door banged open and a wave of relief ran through everyone. Casey sat down again.

  A tall, brown-skinned woman, with calm dark eyes entered. She had an oval face and was dressed in a blue fleece jacket a size too large for her.

  ‘Hi everyone,’ she said, ‘I got bacon.’

  ‘Nadia,’ said Paul. ‘She always wanted to be a nurse in her country. Then there was the war and she was lucky. She got out. Now she works in the kitchen in St George’s. So we get anything left over.’

  Nadia smiled round the room, waved to Paul, then saw Ade. She came forward and held out her hand.

  Ade took it.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Nadia. The dark eyes stayed on Ade. Ade felt her hand warm and safe in Nadia’s.

 
‘Had a hard time, haven’t you?’ said Nadia. ‘You sit easy; this is a good man. I’ll get bacon sandwiches.’

  ‘There ain’t no bread,’ said Ethan. ‘We ate it.’

  ‘There’s bacon.’

  Ethan stirred in his corner. ‘We gotta talk. You brought someone back, Paul. You shouldn’t have done that. We always said: first rule, never let anyone know where this place is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Casey. ‘And she got money. Johnno’s seen it. What’s she doing here?’

  Nadia clattered the pan on the stove. The fragrant smell of frying bacon filled the room. Ade found it almost overwhelming.

  Mariska raised her voice: ‘This is different. Can’t you see? She needs help. Paul wouldn’t bring her if she didn’t need help, would you?’

  ‘That’s the truth.’ He looked round the room. ‘I just want to help her.’

  ‘She ain’t got the cops after her, has she?’ asked Casey. ‘She’ll bring trouble.’

  ‘What you say, sister?’ said Nadia. ‘You look like you had trouble.’

  ‘I… Please let me stay. I want to stay. I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Lots of people got nowhere to go,’ said Ilah.

  ‘Not the worst thing.’ Everyone looked round. Alan was speaking in a deep preacher’s voice. Ade guessed he didn’t talk a lot. ‘Worst thing… how people treat you when you got nowhere and you ask them to help you. How they look at you.’

  There was a murmur of agreement round the room. Paul stood up and glared at them all. He looked so small, standing there with the candle-light glowing on his face and the darkness behind him, thought Ade, like a painting she’d once seen in the National.

  ‘Someone treated her very bad. She can stay one night. OK? Just one night.’

  Nadia lifted the pan and tipped the bacon onto a plate. ‘Yeah. Now let’s eat.’

  Casey wolfed down a long rasher of bacon. Ade felt his eyes on her. She shivered. She was safe, for tonight. She didn’t take any of the bacon.