Charles inserts the rubber plug and runs some cool water into the basin. He washes the blood off his face, the water turning pink, and bathes his eyes for a few minutes. He then rinses down the sink and dries his face gingerly. He takes the Scotch into the lounge and picks up the phone. He dials most of Sally’s number in Romford but hangs up before completing it. He hears Henrietta harrumph from behind him, but she says nothing.
He thinks for a moment and then goes to a drawer in the kitchen, digging until he finds something right at the bottom. He pulls out a pamphlet entitled “Port of London — Handbook of Tide Tables”. It’s dog-eared and stained, having been used variously since its acquisition as a coaster for hot drinks, a bookmark and a leveller for a wobbly dressing table. He doesn’t really know why he persists in buying these handbooks for them to remain unread and, when out of date, stacked in order on a shelf — perhaps in memory of those wonderful two years spent with Merlin on the river — but this is the first time he’s ever had cause to look at one since 1942.
Charles leafs swiftly to the page giving details of the day’s tides and runs his finger down until he finds the entry he seeks. He then returns the handbook to the drawer. He looks at his watch. Time to call in a favour from Handbag Dave and some of his mates with stalls at the Lane.
At quarter to midnight Charles slips out of the door to the apartment building on Fetter Lane. He’s spent the last hour sitting at the kitchen table, a tea towel filled with crushed ice applied to his eye, and the swelling has begun to reduce. He scans the road carefully, anxious not to bump into any barristers leaving the Temple late after burning midnight oil, but Fetter Lane and Fleet Street are empty of pedestrians.
Charles wears tight slacks, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, a white vest underneath the shirt, and a short leather jacket, all recently acquired during the course of the evening and a quick trip to a lockup in Walthamstow. He carries David’s rucksack over his shoulder. He has tried to get his thick curly hair to lie flat under a layer of Brylcreem, but with only limited success. He enjoys playing roles, submerging his identity into another’s attitudes, accent and gait, but this makes him nervous. A flick knife, an old friend, nestles in a hip pocket.
A Routemaster, a number 15, rumbles along Fleet Street towards Trafalgar Square, slowing for the traffic lights at the junction with Fetter Lane. Charles jogs into the junction and leaps onto the platform as the bus moves off again. The lower deck has half a dozen passengers, four noisy teenagers and a couple of middle-aged women who are either about to finish or to start work. The Jamaican conductor leans against one of the vertical poles attached to the seats, flirting with one of the women.
Preferring to be unnoticed, Charles climbs to the upper deck, taking the first empty seat at the back. By the time the bus reaches Charing Cross station the conductor has not been up to take Charles’s money and Charles jumps off without paying. He darts across the cobbles of the forecourt of Charing Cross station, dodging the advancing queue of black cabs waiting for fares, and walks into the main hall. There he puts a penny into the slot of one of the left luggage lockers and stuffs the rucksack inside, slamming the door.
He walks swiftly back out of the station, across Trafalgar Square and up Haymarket towards Piccadilly Circus. The pavements are busier here, mainly with young people in high spirits but also a sprinkling of tourists. At the top of Haymarket, he ducks into the entrance of Dunn & Co. The doors are locked and the foyer is littered with windblown sheets of newspaper and used food packets. It smells of stale chip fat and, faintly, urine, but it allows Charles to remain out of sight from a vantage point to look across the road to the Rack.
Lined against the railings surrounding the entrance to Piccadilly Tube station are half a dozen young men, in clothes not dissimilar to those worn by Charles. From this distance most appear to be half Charles’s age. One, a youth with a greasy complexion, a flop of hair over his forehead and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looks no than fifteen or sixteen, despite his efforts to look tough.
On the same pavement, a few feet away, are three or four older men in overcoats pacing up and down, pausing and then pacing again, pretending to wait for someone, but in fact eyeing up the boys on sale. Charles watches as one, a burly man wearing a cloth cap and smoking a pipe, leans forward and says something to one of the rent boys, who laughs in response. A short conversation ensues, the man nods, and walks off towards Leicester Square. A few seconds later the boy follows.
There is a sudden commotion across the road from the statue of Eros. A fight seems to have broken out in the queue of drug addicts waiting for their methadone scripts outside Boots the Chemist. Charles takes advantage of the distraction to slip out of the doorway and jog across the road to the railings.
One of the lads looks up and detaches himself from the Rack. He’s a good-looking boy, fair hair and wide lips, perhaps eighteen years of age, but he has dark rings under his eyes and a hollowness to his cheeks that make him look unappetising. He might just be hungry, thinks Charles, but he doubts it.
‘You looking for some?’ asks the boy in a Geordie accent. He then notices Charles’s clothes. ‘Or are you working?’ he asks, looking a bit puzzled. ‘You’re a bit old, eh?’
Charles leans in towards him. ‘I didn’t want to look like a punter,’ he explains, ‘but I’m not working either. I’d hoped to blend in,’ he finishes lamely.
‘Well, you fucked that up, then,’ comments the boy, dismissing Charles and taking a pace sideways so as to re-establish eye contact over Charles’s shoulder with the evening’s potential business customers.
Charles steps forward again, narrowing the gap between him and the boy. ‘I need some information.’
The boy looks at him sharply and mutters ‘Fucking coppers!’ and makes to move off before Charles grabs his arm.
‘No, I’m not the Filth. I need to find Chicken. I’m a friend of Merlin’s.’
Charles sees renewed doubt and uncertainty in the boy’s face.
‘What happened to your face?’ he asks.
‘Like Chicken, I got into some trouble. Merlin’s sent me to give him some money. For a ticket home if he wants, or just a safe bed for a few nights.’
‘Merlin, you say?’
The boy obviously knows Merlin’s name, but it’s not the passport Charles hoped it might be.
‘He’s a … close friend,’ replies Charles, avoiding the other’s eyes.
The implicit confession that Charles is also homosexual appears to break the other’s resistance. The boy nods, a curious upward jerking of his head. ‘Try behind Lisle Street. Above the Wan Chai.’
Charles frowns and pulls a face as if to say he has no idea where the boy means. In fact he thinks he does know the restaurant — certainly he knows Lisle Street — but he needs to make sure he’s not being given the brush off.
‘Can you take me? I’ll pay for your time,’ he offers.
The boy scans the punters behind Charles, but doesn’t apparently see any immediate business. ‘How much?’ he asks, transferring his gaze back to Charles.
‘Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, so twenty minutes before you’re back at work.’ Charles looks round at the older men. Two have already departed and those who remain don’t look keen. ‘And there’s not much doing here. Two pounds?’
The boy snorts. ‘You’re joking. I earn more than that for a hand job.’
‘Three then. Cash in advance. No risk and no sticky fingers.’ Charles reaches into his pocket, as if about to take out some money.
The boy jumps forward, very close to Charles, and puts his right hand over Charles’s while it’s still in his pocket. ‘Fuck’s sake, mate!’ he hisses. ‘What’re you doing? You’ll get us both arrested!’
Charles had no intention of offering the boy money here but he wants to push him into a decision. He has very little time.
‘OK,’ says the boy. ‘Follow me.’
They walk down the short stretch of Coventry Street and turn
off Leicester Square by a building site. The hoardings announce the arrival of “The Swiss Centre”. Charles wonders idly why Leicester Square requires a centre dedicated to the Swiss nation and its industries. What will they sell? Cheese maybe? Cuckoo clocks?
Lisle Street is narrow, dark and almost deserted. The thought flashes across Charles’s mind that he’s been led here to be robbed, and as the boy turns to face him Charles nonchalantly loops his thumbs into his belt, making sure the flick knife is within easy reach of his right hand, but the boy turns to him and holds out his hand.
Charles reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small roll of notes. He peels off three and places them on the other’s open palm. The boy pockets them, turns and points to a small door immediately next to a Chinese restaurant. Light still spills out of the restaurant’s windows, and two or three tables are occupied.
‘The front door should be open. Go up to the third floor. There’s no name on the door and no bell. Knock twice, and then twice again. Tell him I’ll be back before dawn with some food. I need to earn some money first.’
The boy’s about to return to the Rack when he hesitates and studies Charles. ‘You’d better be on the up and up, mate,’ he says. ‘Chicken’s me friend.’ He leans in and tries to look menacing, but there’s genuine concern on his sallow face.
‘I promise you,’ Charles says, ‘Merlin’s a friend of mine, and he’s asked me to find Chicken and give him some money. You have my word: no harm’ll come to him from me.’
Charles speaks with sincerity. He hopes what he says is true.
‘Fair enough,’ says the other, with the same odd upward motion of his head. ‘See ya ’round.’
Charles looks about to ensure he’s not being watched and crosses the road, stepping over discarded vegetables in the gutter. He pushes against the peeling paint on the outer door which might once have been white. The door opens and Charles is immediately faced by a Chinese man sitting at the bottom of a staircase, smoking a cigarette. Both men jump. The Chinese man says something in what Charles assumes is Mandarin and scuttles past, throwing his cigarette end into the street and pushing open the restaurant door.
The staircase facing Charles is in darkness and he can’t find a light switch, but a rectangle of yellow light enters through a window at the top of the first flight of stairs and he can see tolerably well. He climbs slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. He passes a door, slightly ajar, off the first landing: office equipment, a desk and a telephone, presumably the office serving the restaurant. He continues along the landing back towards Lisle Street and a second turn in the stairs. He has to feel way up to the second floor through increasingly complete darkness.
At the top of the second flight, seen through the balustrade to the third floor above him, a yellow strip of light trickles from underneath a closed doorway. He creeps up the last flight of stairs and halts outside the door. The distinctive electronic warbling of The Tornados’ clavioline on ‘Telstar’ comes from a tinny speaker insider, presumably a transistor radio.
Charles lifts his hand and knocks twice, pauses, and knocks twice again. There’s no reply but the radio is turned off with a distinct click. Charles waits a moment and, in case the occupant didn’t hear the knock clearly, he repeats it: two and then two. This time there’s movement and sound from behind the door.
‘Mitch?’ enquires a male voice.
‘No,’ says Charles. ‘I’m a friend of Merlin’s. He sent me to see if you’re OK.’
No response comes from behind the door. Charles looks at it and its frame and thinks he could probably break it down with a shoulder charge, but decides to wait.
‘He’s got a fucking nerve,’ says the voice. ‘I’ve not heard a word from him in weeks.’
‘That’s ’cos he’s in prison, Chicken. He’s being done for murder.’
Charles hears a squeak from behind the door and can imagine the high-pitched exclamation cut short by the maker’s own hand against his mouth.
‘Look, Chicken, open the door, yeah? I don’t think we should continue this conversation where we can be overheard.’
There’s another pause and the door opens slowly, a young man’s tousled head appearing in the gap. He speaks with one hand hiding his mouth. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve got some money for you, and I need to talk to you for a minute.’
Even allowing for the fact that Chicken is bare-footed while Charles wears boots, the boy is very short, no more than five foot four, and slender. He pulls a kimono dressing gown tighter around him with his spare hand, and then removes the hand concealing his mouth. He holds it out.
‘I’ll give you the money if you let me in. This is important, Chicken —’
‘Don’t call me that,’ mumbles the other, keeping his lips almost shut.
‘Sorry. I don’t know what else to call you. That was the name I was given.’
The boy doesn’t answer but he steps back and opens the door wider.
Charles steps into a bedroom. He’d expected a squat or, at least, signs of temporary inhabitation, but is surprised to see that that Chicken — or whatever his name is — takes pride in his surroundings. The single bed in the corner of the room is covered in a purple and pink tie and dye bedspread and half a dozen multi-coloured cushions. A tailor’s clothes rack holds a few neatly pressed clothes, and the basin in the corner of the room is clean and sparkling. A record player sits on a chair next to the bed with a small collection of LPs on the floor underneath it. If the boy has any other possessions, they’re not in this room. The floorboards are bare and the walls unpainted, but taped to the plaster are a handful of ragged sheets of paper covered in sketches and water colour paintings of London streets. Charles is no expert, but to his eye they seem very good. The room smells of incense or perfume, overlaid by the Chinese cooking from the restaurant below.
The boy closes the door behind Charles and gestures to Charles to sit on the bed. Charles hesitates but there’s nowhere else, so he accepts the offer. The boy follows suit, as far from Charles as the length of the bed will allow.
‘What should I call you, then?’ asks Charles.
‘David. My name’s David.’
The boy suddenly notices Charles’s bruised face and swollen eye. ‘Blimey, your face looks a mess.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit tender.’
‘Tell me about Merlin.’
As the boy speaks, Charles sees why he’s been hiding his mouth. The two incisors in the centre of his top gum are missing and only one remains, at an angle, in the lower gum. Now Charles has an opportunity to examine the boy’s face in the light, he can see signs of fading yellowish bruising above one eye and a healing cut in the corner of his mouth.
Charles draws a deep breath. ‘The man who attacked you, Evans … he’s dead.’
David’s hand once more claps over his mouth in shock. ‘Oh God,’ he whispers. ‘I knew it didn’t look good.’
‘Merlin told me what happened,’ says Charles gently.
David hangs his head. ‘First time it’s happened to me,’ he mumbles into his chest, and through the lisping Charles detects a Welsh accent. The possibility that Evans may also have been Welsh crosses his mind, and he files the coincidence for further thought, later. ‘Merlin popped out to get fish and chips. I was dozing, and when I heard footsteps on the deck above me I thought it was Merlin coming back. But it wasn’t.’ He pauses, and Charles stays silent, allowing the boy to collect himself. ‘I honestly believe that if Merlin hadn’t come back when he did, that man would’ve killed me.’
‘Did you go to hospital? Have you seen a doctor?’
David shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t. I left home because I couldn’t tell anyone. There would be questions … the police, and … I’m only seventeen.’ He looks up at Charles and draws a false conclusion from his clothing and his connection to Merlin. ‘You know.’
Charles doesn’t know. He’s represented and prosecuted several homosexual men during
the course of his professional career, but he’s never before been brought face to face with the reality of these young men’s lives. He finds it unsettling. Nonetheless, he nods empathetically.
‘But I’m getting better,’ continues David. ‘It doesn’t bleed so much when I go … you understand.’
Charles nods again. David is little more than a child, and nothing could possibly have prepared him for having his teeth knocked out by way of foreplay to anal rape by a large man twice his age.
‘And your teeth? You’re going to need some treatment, aren’t you? A denture or something.’
‘That costs a lot though, doesn’t it? And look at me; who’s going to be interested now?’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe if I can raise the money for a ticket, I’ll go back home to Swansea. I don’t want to. My step-dad’s still there. But Mitch said he might be able to help.’ The boy lapses into silence. After a moment he attempts a weak gap-toothed smile, and shrugs. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me?’
‘Yes. After Merlin helped you off the boat and got you into the taxi, he went back to the barge. Like you, he thought Evans was just unconscious. He was going to drag him to the bank and leave him there. He couldn’t wake him. He even poked him with the boathook but he still didn’t move. That’s when he realised he was dead. He didn’t know what to do, so he got him into his clothes and pitched him overboard. The Waterguard turned up a couple of hours later. Like I said, he’s been charged with murder.’
‘But it was an accident! Merlin had to hit him to get the man off me!’
The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 16