Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  She didn’t want him to get a taxi. Then Paul was next to her. She clutched at his arm.

  ‘You don’t look too good,’ he was saying. ‘Let’s go,’ and she was cold and he was wrapping a quilted coat she’d never seen before round her.

  It was dark and they were on the street and he was there, guiding her along. She felt dizzy again. She started thinking about the rhythm of the streetlights, into shadow, into brightness, into shadow, trying to match her steps to the lights so she could stride between them.

  ‘Careful, girl,’ said Paul. ‘Hold onto my arm.’

  Someone was calling after them. ‘Hi! Don’t go! I’ve got a taxi.’

  She heard a car engine start up. Headlights swung round, across her and Paul. The taxi slid into her field of vision and stopped just in front of her with its door open. She took a pace back. The fat man, Ronnie, was there, very near her. Then Paul was right in front of her, jabbing his finger at Ronnie.

  ‘Get back to your gallery. Nothing for you here.’

  The fat man grinned at him. ‘Don’t be like that.’ He reached out to put an arm round Paul’s shoulder.

  ‘Get lost.’

  Paul shoved at him with both hands but Ronnie just stood there with the grin across his face, like they were playing a game. She felt dizzy. She needed someone to lean on. She didn’t like Ronnie. She started to move forward.

  The streetlights were glaring down on her, and suddenly she was in the darkness between them and she couldn’t find Paul. The drink tasted sour in her mouth. Everything went quiet and then there was a movement in the shadow beyond the circle of light and someone was lurching out at her, she couldn’t make out a face, just a figure in a hoodie with writing across his chest.

  ‘Fucking gimme,’ the man grunted. He had his hand out as if he wanted to give her something, something that glinted in the streetlight.

  ‘Vinny! I know you.’

  It was Paul’s voice. Paul must have moved very fast, he’d got there, in front of her. She wanted to see what the man had in his hand, but she couldn’t because Paul was in the way.

  ‘You don’t want to be doing this, Vinny.’ Paul was pronouncing the words with great care as if everything depended on how he said them. ‘You don’t want to do this.’

  She could hear the taxi revving its engine slowly as it followed them along the street, its door still open. Paul spread his arms out wide, his hands open to show there was nothing in them.

  ‘Kinhell. It’s Paul,’ said the man in the hoodie. ‘You shouldn’t be here. What you doing here?’

  The fat man said something behind her and he was laughing very loud, as loud as the taxi engine. Vinny, the one in the hoodie, dropped something that clattered on the pavement. He threw his arms round Paul.

  ‘Me mate,’ he said indistinctly.

  ‘’S OK, Vinny. But I got to go now. I’ll catch you later. On the street.’

  The fat man had her by the arm and he wouldn’t let her go. She said something to him and it must have been funny because he giggled and put his arm right round her.

  Then she was in the taxi with him and his face seemed enormous, looming over her, round like the moon, and she couldn’t see Paul anywhere and the engine was roaring louder and louder and the streetlights hurtled past, bright, dark, bright, dark, bright, dark.

  She was in a lift staring into the mirror, at her face, at the reflection: infinite faces staring into infinite faces, stretching off and fading slowly into a blur. There were fumes rising all round her in an intricate pattern. They smelt as rich as incense. If she could solve the maze everything would be all right.

  Ronnie was next to her, and he had his hands on her, pulling at her. Paul wasn’t there. She wanted him to be there. She felt Ronnie’s face pressed down on her, she smelled the most exquisite cologne. For an instant it was overpowering. She felt she was going to faint. He isn’t a bad man, she thought, is he? He wants to be an artist, and they won’t let him, they’re all laughing at him.

  17

  She was in a flat she didn’t recognise, in a small bathroom, staring into another mirror. It took her a moment to recognise herself. She drank a glass of water, straight down, cold as melting snow in her throat, then another, then another. She was still thirsty. She looked around her. Everything neat, everything orderly. The rows of neat little jars in the cupboard, each labelled with a letter in italics in alphabet order: pills, capsules, powder, granules. She didn’t have the faintest idea what they were. She felt uneasy and closed the cupboard door without making any noise.

  She realised she didn’t need the light on, it was dawn outside. She listened. At first there was just a car starting in the next street, then she caught it: birdsong, a blackbird just outside the window, loveliest of songbirds, you hardly ever heard them in the city.

  She pressed down on the door-handle. The sight of the room and that rich incense smell brought everything back. He’d stood there, in the middle of the Arab-patterned carpet, pointing to the pictures on the walls. He’d been talking about them, how much he loved them, how he wished he could do something like that, just once, how much they were worth. He kept talking about how people bought them, a present for someone who’s done you a favour – word of mouth, no paper, so the tax man doesn’t know – and he suddenly looked sly. He’s not horrible, but he’s a bastard, she thought.

  There was a Hockney, he’d said it was very early, and a genuine Tintoretto, postcard sized, a cartoon, in an ormolu frame. There were sculptures, including one that looked very much like a Degas dancer, a copy he’d said. There was a long sofa, velvety, the cushions all in a heap at one end, the velvet smooth and warm on the skin, soft as silk, the seam that pressed into your back, one of the cushions slightly torn where they’d…oh my god!

  She stood, not moving for some minutes. She felt the anger inside her growing, spreading out and filling her. The jars in the bathroom and that drink he’d given her that made everything crystal clear and distant all at once, and then she’d felt dizzy and the roar of the taxi engine filled her mind, and there were the mirrors in the lift with her face and his face endlessly curving away from her, and Paul wasn’t there, there was only Ronnie’s face, large and round and sallow, filling up her whole vision, and he was laughing, his genial, all-embracing, overpowering laugh.

  She moved noiselessly forward and touched the sofa, then ran her fingers along it, very gently, lifted them and smelled the tips. She stood there, looking round, not moving. She thought of the sofa, but no images would come. She smelled at the air in the room and she hated him, with a cold, methodical hatred.

  The door to the bedroom stood open. She could see his naked feet poking out from the sheets over the end of the bed, plump, the toes curled round. He was snoring softly. He’d done that to her, he’d used her like they always used her, those men who ruled money. It wasn’t sex, it wasn’t pleasure, it was power, and now he was asleep and she could do anything she wanted. She picked up one of the cushions and pressed it against her face, smelling it, his odour. Then she pushed it away and breathed in deeply, cool, clean air.

  She gripped the cushion between both hands and moved slowly to the bedroom door. He was lying prone, rounded, overweight, naked, pink, the dimples below his buttocks and under his shoulder muscles prominent. His head was on the pillow, turned sideways, his mouth wide open, his neck creased.

  She thought of the sofa but again no images came. There was strength in that fat body, she knew that. She thought of the pen, sliding into Webster’s fat neck with no resistance at all. She thought of the gallery, Ronnie’s hand on her back, like he owned her, like he was exhibiting her, of the way he took her arm in the street, of the way he got his arms round and half pulled, half led her into his flat. She tightened her grip on the cushion and advanced towards the bed.

  The fat man let out a sigh, farted, and shifted slightly
. He looked like a huge bloated baby. She thought of Morwen. She thought of Paul somewhere out on the street, of his face when he leaned forward over the table in the café, of the way he said ‘All heroes have issues.’ It’s what you do about them that counts, she thought. She put the cushion down, very carefully, and moved back into the sitting room.

  She looked round, trying to collect her thoughts. The Tintoretto (very small) and the Hockney were too obvious. Blek Le Rat? Rita Ackermann – that wasn’t too large? She lifted them down, one by one, and laid them carefully against the sofa. Then she went back into the bedroom. He hadn’t moved. She picked up a sheet from the floor and carried it back and spread it out. What the hell, quality counts. She took the Tintoretto and the Ackermann and wrapped it round them. Not just fifty-pound notes. These were real money.

  Light was streaming into the room now. The wallet was on a side table. She flipped it open, pulled out the thick wad of notes and slid it into her jacket pocket beside the envelope. She stood there, thinking. Outside the window the blackbird sang to the sun.

  She caught an aromatic odour, like lighter fluid. She followed it behind a curtain into an alcove. An expensive draughtsman’s board was set up at an angle to catch the light from the window. There was a sheet of cartridge paper clipped to it, with a half-completed pencil sketch of a young man, naked, mimicking the pose of Michelangelo’s David, a sneer on his face. She recognised him, the sharp-faced young man from the gallery last night. On the card table lay a mess of parti-coloured rags and paint-brushes and some tubes of paint and oil.

  ‘He dabbles,’ she thought. ‘He’s a bastard and he dabbles.’

  She stood on the pavement, looking up and down the road. The sunlight hurt her eyes. She walked smartly away from the entrance to the flats, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

  Paul was walking beside her.

  ‘I waited. He came up in the taxi and I had to sort Vinny out and he grabbed at you. He was too quick and I couldn’t stop him. I ran after the taxi and I couldn’t catch it but I kept running and I saw where you went. It was a heck of a long way.’

  ‘I waited.’ He wasn’t looking at her. He had his hands jammed down in his pockets. ‘It was cold.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m very sorry. Last night. I was a bit pissed.’

  ‘Just a bit. So was I. I was hammered.’

  She shifted the pictures under her arm and took his hand. Then she halted and put her arm round him and pressed her body hard against him. His head was down, forced into her shoulder. She caressed the soft curly hair at the nape of his neck.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Thanks for waiting.’

  ‘S’not a problem.’ He didn’t look up at her.

  She gripped his hand tightly then linked her fingers between his. Why am I apologising? I shouldn’t be saying sorry, it’s not me that did something wrong. He did that to me, and he will pay.

  ‘It’s OK. I handled it. Put your hand in my pocket, not the breast pocket.’

  She felt his fingers, gentle against her. He slid the wad out of her pocket and stared at the russet coloured bank-notes.

  ‘For the Centre,’ she said, watching his face.

  ‘For the Centre,’ he said slowly. ‘Thanks. That’s… good.’

  ‘I got more.’ She pulled back the sheet from the top corner of the paintings. ‘Art, like he said, worth real money.’

  Paul stared at the swirling yellow and red and green of the Ackermann. He reached out and touched it. ‘That’s brilliant. You done good. I waited for you. How did you get them?’

  ‘It sort of happened. He owed me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was silent, his gaze inward. He looked back at the money. ‘Enough to get the Centre going. Proper legal advice. Take on the landlords, take on the council.’

  She kept her eyes on his. Deep within them she could see tiny images of her face reflected back at her.

  ‘So what happened? Up there.’

  ‘I think he slipped me something, I was completely out of it. He got me up there. I couldn’t stop him. He’s got a cupboard full of pills in his flat.’

  He halted and stood there gripping her arm, his eyes sharp as knives. ‘The bastard! I’ll…’

  ‘It’s OK. I handled it. It’s not your problem.’ She looked down at his hand. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d like it to be my problem. Please.’

  They walked on slowly, so close their shoulders were touching. Ade continued: ‘Listen, it’s like this. He bought me a drink, he paid some money, so he thinks he owns me. Could have been anyone but it was me, my body, he used me. So I did something. I got even.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything stupid, did you? After he…? Not like Webster?’

  ‘It was the booze and maybe pills. Like I said, I handled it. You don’t get even, not really. You do the best you can.’

  After a while she felt his fingers squeeze hers. ‘I’m not really a vampire,’ she said. ‘Or a super-hero. Or a revenge artist.’

  She could feel the sun warm on her face. Somewhere above them was the faint song of the blackbird. You had to be up early to hear the birds in the city.

  ‘He had paintings,’ she said, ‘all sorts of paintings. And some sculptures. He deals in them, it’s all a tax-dodge. And he’s a bit of an amateur. He wants to be an artist. So I found some red paint.’

  His dark eyes were like pools of oil, intent on her.

  ‘I took a tiny dab of paint, on my little finger,’ she said, ‘and I marked the pictures and the drawings and the sculptures and the engravings. I marked them with two little marks, like wounds, just the kind of wounds teeth would make. Next to each other, on the throat, just here.’

  She brushed her fingers ever so lightly against his neck.

  ‘I marked all of them,’ she said. ‘There were quite a few. Then I found a knife, a small knife with a riveted wooden handle and a serrated blade and a sharp point, and I dipped the point in the red paint, thick as syrup, and I twisted it round. I went into the bedroom, and I bent down over him as he lay there asleep. And I took the knife and I touched it very gently against his throat, twice, close together, just where I could see the artery pulsing, where he’d been dribbling in his sleep out of the corner of his mouth. I made two red marks, little marks, like very sharp teeth would make.’

  She held him very tight against her and pressed her mouth against his throat, very gently, oh so gently, and she bit, not hard, just enough, and she felt his body jerk against her. She stroked him, running her hand from the hair-line right down his cheek and slid her mouth into the little whorl of baby-hair, just by his ear, and whispered: ‘And I took the knife and I dipped it in the paint again and I let the paint trickle all along the blade, and I wiped the handle and I laid it there, on the pillow, just where he’d see it first thing when he woke up and the first thing he’d smell would be the paint, red as blood. And I wiped my fingers on the sheet, very carefully, and I left him, fast asleep.’

  She stood there without moving, feeling Paul close to her, her arms round him. It was just them against the city, with the blackbird singing its heart out, greeting the day.

  ‘I handled it Paul. I didn’t lose control. He’s a bastard. Just like all the other bastards in the city. We won. We’re going to sort him out.’

  She nursed the hatred within her, smouldering, under control. That fat, needy man, who wants friends and loves art and doesn’t pay tax and thinks he can use me just ‘cos he wants to. Justice. It’s not paying him back, it’s not revenge, it’s justice.

  He looked up at her. ‘Can’t I help?’

  ‘You’re helping. You never tried to use me. You sorted Vinny. You saved me that night, after Webster. You looked after me. You help me all the time.’

  ‘You’re a powerful woman. A man gotta be careful near you.’

 
‘Come on. The café’ll be open soon.’

  18

  ‘Big breakfast, double hash browns, black pudding.’ Ade said. ‘Twice.’

  Paul grunted. He still had his hand in hers. ‘Mine’s the vegetarian.’ He stared at the menu over the counter. ‘You got porridge?’

  ‘Sorry love. No call for it.’

  ‘Weetabix?’

  ‘Sorry, love. Veggie’ll take a minute. Have to find it.’

  ‘And a glass of milk, skimmed.’

  ‘Sorry love. Full fat.’

  Ade grinned at him and bit into her sausage. Warm fat spurted into her mouth.

  ‘Lovely food,’ she said, her mouth still full. ‘Best café for miles.’

  ‘How can you eat that? Cows are people too. Besides it’s a week off your life every bite you take.’

  ‘Yeah, I should worry about that. I love sausages.’

  ‘Veggie burger, diet coke,’ said the young woman with flax-blond hair and milky blue eyes, slapping them down in front of Paul. He handed her the coins.

  ‘Thanks.’ He glanced round the room. ‘But how did you know it was me?’

  ‘You’re the only one ever eats ‘em. We got ‘em ‘specially for you. She asked us.’

  She pointed to Ade.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  He put down a couple more coins.

  ‘You should see what they look like before they’re cooked.’

  The young woman winked and was gone.

  ‘She’s got such pure skin,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s the ten hour days, and the grease.’

  ‘So what we going to do?’

  ‘Those pictures are worth real money. Besides that’s what they love, stuff that goes up in value, even in a recession. They’re portable, you can show off with them, you can take them to the Cayman Islands in your private jet, no accounting. You want a favour? You hand one over. It’s a present so there’s no tax. Revenue got their eye on the art market, but there’s never any proof.’