‘Never really thought about it.’
‘You should. You would make a good husband. You care. And children like you. It is a good combination. Find a wife.’
‘Yeah. I could advertise in the post office window. Wanted: Wife for seventeen-stone leg breaker. Likes children.’
‘You do not like your job? Find another.’
‘Yeah? Airline pilot? I fancy that.’
‘Why are you so down today? It is not like you to be so negative.’
Bimbo sipped his tea and walked to the window, looking out over the rail tracks. ‘Saw somebody today. Sherry Parker. Used to know her at school. She’s starting to look old and worn out. But she used to have bright eyes and was always laughing. Lovely kids she’s got – and a scumbag of an ’usband what walked out on her. I seen her lots of times. But today? I dunno. Maybe it was me swan. She’s buildin’ a nest again. And I broke a bloke’s arm … Anyway, it’s all going round in me head.’
The old man nodded and quietly reset the chess pieces. Rain began to lash at the window and Bimbo felt a draught of cold air against his chest. ‘You oughta get that seen to,’ he said. ‘Or plug it wiv paper.’
‘It is not a problem.’
‘You could catch a chill or somethin’.’
‘Come. Sit down and finish your tea.’
Bimbo returned to the table and idly moved the King’s pawn forward two squares. Stepney introduced the Queen’s knight into play.
It was after midnight before Bimbo called a halt and left the old man’s flat, and he walked slowly through the rain across the common and on towards the estate. A white police car pulled up alongside him. He stopped and crouched as the window slid down.
‘Where you left the body this time, Bimbo?’ The voice was deep, and almost amiable. Bimbo leaned down and glanced in at the policeman. Sergeant Don Dodds was past fifty with a round florid face and knowing eyes. Bimbo liked him, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was just that Dodds was an old fashioned copper.
‘I bin with a friend, Mr Dodds. No violence.’
‘Won’t be long before I put you away again, son.’
‘That’s life innit, Mr Dodds?’
The car drew away and Bimbo crossed the road on to the estate. He was half-way home when a thickset black man wearing a shiny black leather coat stepped into his path.
‘Got a cigarette, man?’
Bimbo chuckled. ‘You must be new ’ere, dick-brain. And if your mate behind me takes one more step I’ll break ’im in half. Now bugger off!’
‘No need for unpleasantness, man.’
‘Damn right,’ said Bimbo, moving on, his hands thrust into his track suit pockets.
He arrived at his home just as the sky was clearing. He moved quietly along the communal hallway and opened his front door. The flat was cold and he lit the gas fire. Stripping the track suit top he towelled himself down, then plugged in the kettle and returned to the fire. A subdued tapping at his door made him smile.
‘I heard you come in,’ said Esther.
Bimbo stepped aside and she slipped past him into the flat, moving straight to the fire and sitting crosslegged on the floor. She was twenty-two, ebony dark and wand slim. Her hair was short and tightly curled and she was wearing a white towelling robe with a Japanese letter embroidered at the breast.
‘You wanna coffee?’
‘Is it all right?’
‘Sure. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘It’s late. You don’t mind?’
‘If I minded I wouldn’t ask.’ He vanished into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of black coffee.
‘There’s a storm coming. I can feel it. And I hate thunder,’ she said.
‘Would you like to stay?’
‘How come you never knock on my door, Bimbo?’
‘Dunno. I should really.’
‘I wish you would. Just once. I’d feel less like a whore.’
‘You aint a whore! Don’t ever say that! You’re a friend. There’s a bleedin’ great difference.’
‘Honest?’
‘Cross me heart and hope to die in a cellar full a rats.’
‘You look tired.’
‘Nah. Strong as an ox. Now do you wanna stay?’
‘Yes,’ she said, grinning.
‘Come on then. You can keep me warm.’ He turned off the fire and led her into the bedroom. She switched on the bedside lamp and dropped her robe. The bed was unmade and she lay back, tugging the covers over herself. Bimbo stepped out of his jeans and boxer shorts, hurling both in the direction of an overflowing basket. He slid in beside her.
‘These sheets are cold,’ he said. Her warm body snuggled alongside him. For a little while he lay still, enjoying the closeness. Then she kissed him.
When he awoke she was gone, but the musky, pleasant smell of her remained. He wanted to go to her room and tap at the door. But he did not. Instead he fried four eggs and six rashers of bacon, ate them, washed the pan and dish, made some tea, bathed, and dressed in a faded blue track suit and worn down Adidas trainers. He flipped open the curtains. The sun was high and it was close to noon. For a quarter of an hour he went through the familiar stretching routine: first the hamstrings and lower back, then the quads.
Out on the street he began to run the circuit. Out past the tower blocks to New Street, left at the baker’s, across the common, back along the lane, down the High Street, left into the estate, and then a figure eight past the station and over the bridge and back along the canal path.
Six miles exactly. Back home he took the weights from the rear cupboard and worked out for an hour, finishing with a hundred sit-ups.
He bathed once more then searched the flat in vain for a clean shirt. Finding nothing he pulled on a woollen jumper then checked his basket for a pair of shorts that might stretch to one more day. It was empty. Esther must have taken it before he awoke. He grinned and stepped into his jeans. They were still damp from last night’s rain.
At the back of the High Street he entered the Roadster Cafe and sat nursing a mug of tea. Mac entered some twenty minutes later, pulling up the chair opposite.
‘Saw you running again this morning. Not bad for a man your size.’
‘Gotta keep in trim, Mac. You oughta try it.’
‘Yeah,’ said the fat man, sceptically. ‘My heart’d love that. Anyway, down to business. There’s a geezer owns a restaurant in Westbrook Street. Cypriot. Mr Reardon aint too happy with him. Normal business, Bimbo. Book a table, complain about the food and give someone a spanking. Upset the customers. All right?’
‘No, it aint all right. I’m a collector. Turning over cafes aint my game.’
‘Mr Reardon asked for you. There’s fifty notes in it.’
‘Nah. What else you got?’
‘You aint getting the point, son. That’s the job. Mr Reardon wants you to do it. Or should I go back and tell him you said no?’
Bimbo looked away, his face reddening. ‘I’ll do it. But why me? What happened to Nelson?’
‘He’s a known face. Anyway, what’s it to you? You soft on Cypriots?’
‘No. It’s just … it don’t matter.’
‘I’m beginning to worry about you, son. Now wear a suit tonight. It’s a posh place. Know what I mean?’
Bimbo stared at the heavy, square face in the mirror, and the thick bull neck below it. Glancing up he looked into his own blue eyes. The awkward, clumsy boy from the Home was still there, deep down. He was older, sure. But he was there. Prison hadn’t changed him. Even sharing a cell with Adrian and Stan hadn’t affected the boy from the Home. Still a loner.
He smeared shaving cream on the broad chin and slowly shaved with a safety razor.
‘It don’t improve you much, son,’ he told the reflected man. ‘You was just born ugly.’
From a cardboard
-thin wardrobe he took a white polo-necked sweater and an old Harris Tweed jacket he had bought six years ago. He had no trousers, and once more pulled on his jeans. They didn’t look too bad, he thought, the sweater and the jacket giving him the impression of neatness.
His hair was close cropped and unruly. He ran a comb through it twice, but it swiftly settled back into place.
He sat on the bed, toying with the comb, uncomfortably aware that the time was creeping on.
‘Complain about the food and give someone a spankin’.’
It didn’t sit right. Bimbo rarely got angry, but he could feel the swelling of the ugly emotion now. His needs were few, but he still had them. Pay for the flat, buy his food. And where was he going to get it if he didn’t work for Reardon, or someone like him? Dole? Not bloody likely.
He’d had enough of charity down the Home. He’d worked on the lorries for a while after leaving school. Two pounds a day as a casual. But all the drivers had their fiddles, and they’d chipped the big youngster in, giving him an extra tenner a week. Then the police raided and Bimbo was among those charged with theft. Suspended sentence that time. Three of the drivers got six months each. Then, short of cash, he joined Nobby Fletcher in knocking over a supermarket manager on his way to the bank with the day’s takings. He’d made £425 – and nine months in the Scrubs. No regrets. Nobody forced him to do it. But after he got out nobody wanted him working for them. Except Mr Reardon.
A smartly dressed waiter led Bimbo to a table near the window and lit a thin red candle.
‘Aperitif, sir?’
‘Just some water.’
‘Perrier, sir?’
‘Whatever.’ He tugged at the polo neck to allow some air to his throat. Around him some dozen or so diners were enjoying their meals, and a tall blonde woman was sitting at the curved bar, sharing a joke with two men. She glanced in Bimbo’s direction, saw his eyes on her and smiled nervously. He nodded and turned away. He was out of place here, and the situation was moving inexorably out of control. The waiter returned with his drink. The water was fizzy, but quite pleasant.
‘Are you ready to order, sir?’
‘Nah. Not yet.’
‘Bimbo?’ said Esther. ‘Is that you?’
His head jerked up. She was standing in the doorway in her nursing uniform, her navy blue coat draped over her shoulders, her white dress held at her slim waist by a wide black belt. Bimbo stood.
‘Yeah. Er … join me?’
Esther hesitated. ‘You … waiting for someone?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you don’t often dress up.’
Bimbo grinned. ‘Yeah, clean jeans. And no I aint waiting for no one.’
‘That’s a double negative,’ she said, removing her coat and handing it to the waiter, who asked her if she desired a drink. She ordered dry white wine and he walked away. Bimbo moved round the table and helped Esther to a seat.
‘I saw you through the window,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re not meeting someone? It’s okay. I mean we’re not an item or anything. I won’t get jealous.’
‘No,’ he told her. ‘In fact I’m sorta relieved you’re ’ere. Now we can just have a nice meal. You hungry?’
‘It’s a bit expensive, isn’t it?’ she whispered, leaning across the table. Bimbo summoned the waiter and ordered a fillet steak, rare. Esther chose veal with ham.
‘You been here before?’
‘No,’ said Bimbo. ‘It was recommended. Had a good day?’
‘Not bad. All bedpans and bedmaking. You?’
‘I had a run. Yeah, it was a good day. Thanks for doin’ me washin’.’
‘It was no trouble. Thanks for last night.’
He smiled, and started to relax. ‘You look really great in that uniform.’
‘It’s the black skin, Bimbo. Goes well with blue and white.’
‘You oughta bin a model.’
The steak was good, but the portions were not large enough to suit Bimbo. Esther couldn’t finish her veal. Bimbo swapped the plates and ate it with gusto.
‘You eat like a sparrow,’ he said. ‘I dunno how you manage.’
At around 11 p.m. three youths entered the restaurant, one of them sporting a Union Jack T-shirt. Esther stiffened, but Bimbo reached across the table and took her hand. The trio sat down at a nearby table. The waiter approached them.
‘l am sorry, gentlemen, you cannot be served here without wearing jackets.’
‘Says who?’ snarled a burly, blond youngster.
‘It is the rule. I do not make the rule,’ answered the waiter, warily.
‘We can’t get a meal then?’ said the youth in the Union Jack T-shirt.
‘I am sorry.’
‘Even though I’m wearing the flag of me country?’
‘No sir.’
‘But you serve niggers?’
‘I think you had better leave, gentlemen,’ said the waiter, steeling himself for the inevitable violence. The three stood, one of them kicking back at his chair and sending it flying into the doorway. Bimbo saw that Esther was sitting very still, her eyes staring at the table. He looked back at the trio, feeling suddenly sorry for the waiter.
‘Hey you,’ he said to the leader. ‘Your mum know you’re out this late, sonny?’
The three started forward. Bimbo stood and moved towards them.
At his advance the leader fell back, suddenly aware of the power in the huge man. He backed into one of his comrades and the trio headed for the door, stepping over the upturned chair. In the street a semblance of courage returned to the youths. ‘Fuck you, nigger lover!’ one of them shouted. Then they ran. Bimbo scooped up the fallen chair and returned it to the table.
The waiter was sweating as he grinned at Bimbo. ‘Thank you, sir. I hope it did not spoil your evening?’
‘Don’t worry about it, son. You got balls to stand up to ’em like that.’
‘We have been waiting for trouble. My uncle says it is inevitable.’
‘Life’s like that,’ said Bimbo, returning to Esther. She was still stiff and her eyes were frightened. ‘Don’t let them worry you,’ he said, taking her hand.
‘It’s not nice to be hated.’
‘I don’t hate you, Esther. And I’ll bet your patients don’t neither.’
The waiter returned with two brandies. ‘On the house, sir,’ he said.
‘See what I mean? Nobody here hates you.’
A movement outside the window gave Bimbo a fraction of a second’s warning. He up-ended the table just as the first brick smashed the plate glass window. Pulling Esther from her chair he shielded her with his body. A brick struck his shoulder and bounced away. The sudden noise was followed by the sound of running feet. Bimbo stood and surveyed the damage. Esther rose alongside him.
‘Take me home,’ she said, sadly.
A police car pulled up alongside the restaurant. Two officers entered the building and questioned the waiter. The chef and a female cook were now standing at the back. The waiter spoke to the policeman and gestured to Bimbo. The officers walked over.
‘Can you describe the men, sir?’
‘I never saw who threw the bricks.’
‘That’s a shame, sir.’
Another police car drew up. Sgt Dodds walked wearily into the building. He spoke to the waiter then approached Bimbo. ‘So,’ he said, ‘into the restaurant wrecking business now, are we?’
‘I was just having a meal. It’s nothin’ to do with me.’
‘Don’t give me that shit, Bimbo. Mr Niazzi has been having trouble with your boss. Now you’re here and the place is a wreck. You want to tell me it’s coincidence?’
Bimbo’s anger faded. ‘I don’t know who done this. They come in and insulted Esther. I never done nothin’. I never even gave ’em a spankin’. What else you want me to say?’
‘Nothing at
all. Just get out of my sight.’
The waiter, who had been listening to the exchange, pushed his way forward. ‘So you work for Reardon eh, you bastard! Well, you tell him he don’t get a penny. And don’t you ever come here no more.’
‘You want me to pay the bill?’ said Bimbo, softly.
‘Thirty-two pounds – and four hundred for the window.’
‘Does that include the tip, you dago son of a bitch?’
‘I want him out of here,’ shouted the waiter.
Bimbo peeled six £5 notes from his roll and dropped them to the floor, adding two £1 coins. ‘Come on, Esther. I’ll walk you home.’
Esther waited until Bimbo reached the door, then she turned to Sgt Dodds. ‘He didn’t have anything to do with it. We were just having a meal.’
Dodds removed his hat and rubbed his hand across his heavy face. He was fifty-three years old and a career copper. And he was a good judge of character. He took the girl by the arm and led her to the bar.
‘Nurse, I think you’re a nice girl, but you’re keeping bad company. If Bimbo didn’t have anything to do with tonight’s fracas it doesn’t mean a thing. This is his career. He breaks things. Mostly people.’
‘You are wrong. He saved my life.’
‘Don’t get carried away by a few bricks, miss.’
‘Not tonight. Two years ago. Now if you’ll excuse me. I have a friend waiting.’
Bimbo sat at the Roadster cafe, staring at the £50 note on the Formica-topped table. ‘Well pick it up, son,’ said Mac.
‘l never done it, Mac.’
‘Don’t be so modest. You gave them kids some verbal and they done it for you. Take the cash. Or are you that bloody rich you can afford to look a gift horse in the mouth?’
‘I aint that rich,’ said Bimbo, scooping the money and pushing it into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Funny though, eh, them skinheads turning up like that?’
‘Dunno what you mean, son,’ said MacLeeland, pulling a cigarette from his pack and lighting it.
‘You aint lookin’ at me, Mac.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bimbo! Okay, so I sent ’em along. I knew you were wrong for the job, and I didn’t want to see you get into trouble. All right?’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 2