The Tottenham Outrage

by M. H. Baylis

  So I scarce have to pretend I’m an honest man, outraged, as I hurl myself at Elephant and knock him and his bag to the floor. Compared to him, I am honest. I get in a good couple of punches to his nose and his eye. He never stops smiling. He seems to reach up and embrace me. I feel a thick parcel being stuffed inside the special fold I’d sewn into my coat the night before. I can smell the gunpowder on him – a sweaty, smoky, below-decks smell. We roll on the cobbles and he whispers in my ear, like a lover.

  ‘Tell you a secret, Vulcan. When you went to Vilnius, the boss sent your Rosa away. Called her in to the Dockers’ tavern and told her you were never coming back.’

  We stopped rolling. I stared at him, hands round his neck. He smiled that smile.

  ‘The girl was a bad influence on you. And we needed a good English-speaker for this job. Velkis paid the fare and she went back to her family without a backward look. The rabbis sent her straight away again, I heard. To Canada. So you don’t waste any time looking for your lost love.’

  I pulled my fist back. I was going to take out that little rat-tooth that drooped over the bottom lip. But just then I caught a blow from the side. Torch. My ears whistled. My sight cleared in time to see their two arses, haring away with the bag.

  The woman from the grocer’s hurled her biggest potato after them. ‘I’ll want reimbursing for that,’ she said, uselessly, to the corpse of PC Tyler, as more of his fellows came running out of the station house. I felt the thick wad of money at my belly and I resolved something, there and then on the bloody cobbles. It wasn’t going to Riga. Nor me.

  * * *

  For the rest of the week, Rex asked no questions about Dr Kovacs, or the Bettelheims, or Micah Walther. On his way to and from the office, he kept an eye out for Bird, in the hope of finding the man in a moment of clarity, and asking him more about the woman he’d encountered at Kovacs’ house. He never saw him, though, nor, to the best of his knowledge, had anyone else in the area. Those efforts aside, he concentrated on the paper. Susan’s message about bringing out an ‘A-class’ edition had sounded more like a plea than the usual pep talk, and he’d taken it to heart.

  There was plenty of other local news, as well, what with some misguided soul spraying FUCK TERISTS [sic] in pink letters on the exterior of the Noel Park Sikh Gurdwara, and a sit-in protest by a splinter group of the Flint Street Primary School Action Committee at the offices of the Council Planning Department. The police had reacted with the heavy-handedness typical of the past few weeks, and several of the mothers who’d been objecting to the siting of a hostel for convicted criminals next to the school had ended up with criminal convictions themselves. One had ended up with physical injuries. There were lawsuits and inquiries in the offing.

  Susan’s outrage was almost matched by her delight that Brenda’s eldest daughter had managed to film some of police brutality on her mobile while visiting the Council Offices to apply for a permit to cut down a tree. The footage on the News North London website had had nine thousand hits, and a copy on YouTube had almost as many.

  Then there was the government leaflet that had been slipped through the letter-boxes of every home in Haringey. ‘Communities’, it said, had a ‘duty’ to report suspicious behaviour to the anti-terror hotline. Everyone knew what ‘communities’ meant. It meant Muslims. And the list of what to look out for was almost comical. False passports. Mood swings. Spending a lot of time in internet cafés or with new friends. Adopting a new name or nickname. Not to mention personality changes, obsessive behaviour and constant lying.

  ‘Now I know what was wrong with my first wife,’ Lawrence said, when he saw the leaflet, and Susan liked his joke so much she turned it into a cartoon and put it in the middle of the homepage.

  Rex found it hard to share in her delight. Of course, in an abstract sense it was good that they had important, local stories to tell, and that people were noticing. He didn’t see how that made any real difference, though, if those people weren’t paying money to read them. And the meetings in Susan’s office hadn’t stopped. Those, he felt, were a surer indication of failure than web stats were of success.

  The other thing was that Terry had shuffled in early on Wednesday afternoon, clearly stoned, to say he felt better and wanted to come back to work. There’d been much fanfare. Brenda had dished out cake, and even the Whittaker Twins had attended a little ‘Welcome Back’ tea party. The next morning, however, Terry was nowhere to be found, and he remained that way for the next two days.

  On Friday afternoon, after three days of increasingly fine weather, Brenda invited Rex to a small barbecue party she and Mike were throwing on Saturday in honour of their anniversary. Rex, on his way out to a dentist’s appointment, hesitated, and, as Brenda was wont to do sometimes, she took it the wrong way.

  ‘Feel free to say no if you’ve got better plans,’ she said huffily.

  ‘I haven’t. I mean, I have got plans, for earlier on, but yes, I can come in the afternoon. I mean – I’d love to, thank you,’ he said.

  Brenda gave a queenly acknowledgement. ‘What are your plans for earlier?’

  ‘It’s Purim on Saturday,’ he said, heading off before she could probe. The fewer people knew about his plans for Purim, the better.

  * * *

  Saturday dawned as bright and warm as the days before it – the perfect weather for his scheme. He’d laid off the lager and the painkillers the night before, and felt better than he had done in months as he made his way towards the bus station and the 55 route towards Stoke Newington.

  The florist on the station parade was doing an amusing deal. 15% off if you bought flowers, chocolates and a ‘Sorry’ card all at the same time. He thought it would make a good filler piece – especially if they could interview a few men taking advantage of the deal – but his zeal was diverted by a familiar sight. Outside the shop, on a bench, Bird was back, can in hand. He was drunk, of course, but not yet shouting drunk.

  Rex sat down next to him, placing a two pound coin on the wood between them. Bird eyed it. ‘Do you remember that woman you saw at George’s house?’

  Bird took a breath. ‘CUT –’

  Rex stopped him. ‘Yes. Her. Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘She cut her back.’

  ‘Did she say that, or did you just see it? Did she speak?’

  Bird finished his can, threw it, then belched. This wasn’t getting anywhere.

  ‘Get off me,’ the old drunk said, displaying a hall of yellow teeth.

  ‘She said get off me? Why? Did you touch her?’

  ‘Push her back,’ Bird said, pocketing the coin. ‘She try teef George’s yard, so me push the white bitch. Get off me. Kurva!’

  ‘Wait a minute. She said that?’ He’d heard Bird shouting this Polish epithet before. Assumed it was just part of his routine. But what if it wasn’t?

  ‘Bitch. Kurva!’

  ‘She shouted that at you? Was she Polish?’

  ‘Uh.’ Bird gazed vacantly at him, then caught sight of two teenage girls giggling as they walked by. He lumbered after them, roaring curses. They obligingly screeched and tottered away. Rex sighed. He had more questions to add to the pile. No answers. He just hoped Stamford Hill would be different.

  Pausing by the top of Langerhans Road, his camera knocking against his chest, he felt a short pang of sorrow that he wasn’t doing this with Terry. In the first place Purim in Stamford Hill was a photographer’s gift. In the second place, Terry was the natural accomplice for Rex’s real mission, because he never minded taking risks, and he was loyal, brave and strong. At least, the old Terry had been.

  Rex hadn’t had much chance to read up on the traditional yearly festival of Purim. It had something to do with the Jews living in ancient Persia, and how they’d outwitted an evil official and avoided a massacre. Its chief point of interest for Rex right now was that the descendants of those Jews, specifically the faithful of the N16 area, celebrated the avoidance of the massacre in a very public fashion. This meant th
ere’d be periods of this High Holy Day when everyone was outside. Which meant Rex could be inside the Bettelheim house, undisturbed.

  What he’d learned from the improbably christened Jock at KumarKabs had convinced him this was a vital lead. His instincts had been right. Dordoff had lied. He had not travelled to Antwerp alone. He had taken a boy with him. And that boy, it seemed pretty clear, had not come home. Now, some months later, Dordoff was back, putting pressure on a new family to give up their son. They’d refused – and they’d all died. Dr Kovacs had died too, possibly because he had known or seen or found out about it. There had to be some clue, something the police had missed, in the Bettelheim house, linking them to Dordoff. He felt sure of it. All week Rex had had dreams about finding it, whatever it was. Dreams like the dreams he’d had as a boy, in which he’d ridden a bike or swum before he’d actually been able to do either.

  The first hint of the festivities was a trio of little boys, running along the road in cowboy gear. They met up with some little ear-locked pirates, then stood obediently at the kerbside as a procession passed down Stamford Hill. It was made up of walkers and floats and the odd, random, horn-blaring Volvo or people carrier, festooned with ribbons and flags. The noise was incredible: some sort of Israeli folk-pop was blaring out from speakers on the opposite side of the road, mingling with cheering and whistle-blowing and loudest of all, the strange, grating sound of the thousands of wooden rattles being twirled by everyone from fat babies in their pushchairs to wispy-bearded scholars. It was remarkable. Remarkable to see this quiet, somewhat sombre community suddenly exploding into life, and with such conviction, as if they’d just been pretending the rest of the year, and this was what they were really like.

  He took some snaps, partly for the website, but also because it would help with his alibi, if he needed one.

  He spotted a group of little boys, done up not as super-heroes or figures of modern legend but in outsized pin-striped suits and ties. One had a big briefcase, another carried a toy mobile phone, a third waved a rolled-up umbrella about.

  ‘They’re being you,’ said a voice at his elbow. It was Mordecai Hershkovits.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look.’ He pointed to another group clad in tracksuits and rugby tops. ‘They’re pretending to be goyim – gentiles. For these kids, that’s fancy dress.’

  ‘What’s with the rattles? Did Spurs give you a job lot?’

  The little man looked at him pityingly. ‘If you think they still use rattles at football matches, Mr Tracey, then you are more out of touch than any of the people here. It’s to blot out the name of Haman. That’s the tradition. When we read out the story in the synagogue, everyone makes a big noise with the rattles whenever Haman’s name comes up. And then they carry on making it, all day.’

  ‘Boo-hiss, sort of thing. I get it. Is everyone here today?’ Rex added, wondering if the likes of Yitzie and Rescha and the Walthers were amongst the jubilant crowds.

  ‘Some people do their own thing,’ Mordecai replied. ‘Your Dukovchiner friends opted out of everything, basically, when the new Rebbe took over.’

  ‘Why?’

  He tutted. ‘You still haven’t worked it out? The other Hasidim thought the Rebbe was too young, that other people were manipulating him. There was a bit of a broiges. A row. Then the Dukovchiner basically said, Okay, you go your way, we’ll go ours – and pulled out of everything.’

  Rex was a little annoyed. If Mordecai had been so forthcoming a couple of weeks ago, he’d have understood a lot more. ‘Pulled out of what? Parades?’

  Mordecai chuckled. ‘Not parades, no. How do you think all these people have ten, eleven children and just run little shops and bake bread and sell religious books for a living?’

  ‘I thought you were a chartered accountant, Mordecai.’

  ‘I am. And yes, we’ve got lawyers and property developers and some doctors. But there are a lot more who make only a tenth, a twentieth what a doctor makes. It’s all kept together by charity. Like a little Jewish welfare state. One charity for children’s clothes, another for schoolbooks, another if you need a lift to the hospital or a funeral… Everybody gives, everybody receives, whatever Rebbe you follow. Except if you decide not to give –’

  ‘– you don’t receive.’ It was starting to make sense. The disapproving reactions when he asked about the Dukovchiner. Dordoff and his cassava garden, or whatever it was – they had to grow food because the free, charitable supplies had dried up. Yitzie and Rescha’s forlorn, empty shop. And the sofa at the Walthers’ house – not a bribe from Dordoff, as he’d thought, but an entitlement that came on joining another group.

  ‘Exactly.’ Mordecai followed Rex’s gaze to a vast, papier-mâché figure making its way slowly down the hill. ‘You recognise him?’

  Rex did recognise the swept-back quiff, the broad, drooping moustache and the military tunic. It was either the bloke who ran Konak Kebab and Grill on Westbury Avenue, or it was someone he’d learnt all about in A-level history.

  ‘Why is Stalin in your parade?’

  ‘He was a modern-day Haman. Another person who plotted to destroy the Jews, and failed.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘You really do live with your history, don’t you?’

  Mordecai’s chest swelled. ‘We are our history.’

  Rex bade goodbye to Mordecai and picked his way across Stamford Hill. The crowds and the raucous atmosphere disoriented him, and it was some time before he found his way to Riverside. A few sparrows and gulls were the only signs of life. Even the single house with the name of Allah stuck over the door was silent. He wondered if they’d gone to the parade too.

  He was still thinking about Mordecai’s parting shot. We are our history. Perhaps it held a message for him. He’d been ignoring everything to do with the past – Kovacs’ box files and brown paper triangles, the stuff about Rescha’s ancestors – assuming it had no bearing on recent happenings. But what if he was wrong? Here, the past clearly wasn’t past. Was that what linked the historian’s death to the others?

  Like many of the properties in this part of Stamford Hill, Number 11, until recently the Bettelheims’ family home, had a tiny yard at the back, reached by a narrow alleyway. Even a man of Rex’s physical limitations found it easy to force his way inside.

  He’d been half-expecting to find that the relations had cleared the place, or put up metal shutters to keep out the squatters, but it seemed they’d been too busy or grief-stricken to take such practical steps. He found a rusty spanner on a pile of bricks next to a boy’s bike, and used it to smash the glass in the kitchen door. He found himself in a Marie Celeste situation. Though it had obviously been dusted and tested and searched by the police, the house was still very much a physical record of what its occupants had been doing before they left it forever.

  Immediately he was surprised by how grubby the place was. It smelt of onions and cooking fat, and the lino was sticky as he walked across it. The Bettelheims hadn’t owned much, and what household goods they possessed – kettle, toaster, oven – were on their last legs. Here was another sign that the charity support network had ceased to function.

  He found himself thinking about his mother. She would have instantly condemned the woman in charge. In Rex’s mother’s world, as in this one, kitchens were always the responsibility of women. Perhaps the women round here had condemned Chaya Bettelheim. Some had hinted that she was a bit mad. Disordered kitchen, disordered mind. Maybe there was some truth in that.

  But he felt there was more of a collective madness going on. The Dukovchiner had opted out of everything the community had to offer, and as a result life had become hard. People – at least two families – had started to leave the fold. Could that have given rise to desperate measures? Harsh penalties, publicly carried out, to deter others from slipping away? Was that what Moses Limburg, Chaya’s nephew, had meant when he said they’d been killed as an example? Was such a thing possible, here in Stamford Hill?

  Rex
climbed the stairs, and entered the musty smelling master bedroom, with its strange arrangement of twin single beds. In a drawer on the chipped dressing table, he found a small cloth bag. Inside it were seven tiny wrist-bands, all from the Homerton Hospital. Chaya Bettelheim had had only three living children. He recalled something Rescha had said, about her and Chaya having some things in common. Had they both lost babies?

  The boy and the girl, Eytan and Simcha, had shared a room looking onto the yard at the back. It was the cleanest, tidiest one in the house. Rex wondered if that was because they’d been responsible for it, instead of their mother. They had twin beds and a bookcase, upon which there were a few educational games, with pictures of 1970s children on their boxes. Hand-me-downs, he guessed. On the floor was a rug, with a moon and stars and a space rocket on it, and for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, the sight of it made him sit on the floor and cry.

  From down there, he noticed something shoved deep under one of the beds. He pulled it out. A briefcase. Unlike everything else in the house, it was smart and new. It was also locked. He took it down to the kitchen in search of a knife.

  The catches gave way easily, and inside he found what amounted to the contents of a Hasidic teenager’s school bag. There were school-books and a weighty, brown-paper-backed tome in Hebrew, pens and pencils, and a ball made from the red rubber bands that the postmen dropped all over the city. There was also a passport. A brand new one, in the name of Eytan Bettelheim. A tubby lad, with lively eyes, according to his photograph.

  Rex then tried all the kitchen drawers, and a deep cupboard in the hall that smelt of boot polish and housed only raincoats and shopping bags and a folder full of old bank statements. He went back upstairs to the bedrooms for another look, and even scoured the baby’s room and the cupboard under the sink, where he found only a spider and a dried-out flannel.

  Then at last, behind the sofa, he discovered a concertina file, with all the family’s important documents stuffed into it. There were birth certificates and insurance policies, P45s and rent books. All the paperwork that every citizen – even a family as unworldly as the Bettelheims – was deemed to need.