The Tottenham Outrage

by M. H. Baylis

  ‘Did you see him make or receive any calls while you were there?’

  Sam thought, and shook his head. ‘I just left. I was so angry at him. I went round the back. I saw the gate was open, and I had this stupid idea of getting a brick or something and chucking it through his window. I saw some breezeblocks, but I wasn’t sure I could chuck anything that big. And then I saw a window was open. It was this guy’s kitchen. So… I don’t know why I did it, I just stuck my head in, to see if there was something there I could grab, and I saw this… there was like this big ugly wooden knife, that had got down between the back of a kind of tea-trolley and the wall and I just grabbed it. I was just doing that when the bloke came through. He was stark bollock naked, and he was talking to himself kind of grumbling, and wiping his eyes with a towel. I just legged it. I heard him shutting the window so I guessed he hadn’t seen me.’

  ‘But you’d seen him. And heard his Geordie accent.’

  Sam nodded. ‘So now I had this knife. But… by then I’d kind of calmed down a bit. I had a go at the garden gate with it a few times. You know – just stabbed it up a bit.’ He made a sheepish face. ‘Then I ditched it. Chucked it in the bush in the front.’

  ‘And you didn’t see or hear anything else before you left?’

  Sam thought. ‘Only your mate praying.’

  ‘My mate what?’

  ‘Well, not him. He had one of those call to prayer things on his phone. Muslim thing. I heard it go off just as he shut the window.’

  Ten minutes later, Rex was sitting on the narrow red seat of a southbound bus stop, within sniffing distance of the parsley and the tomatoes on the trestles of an adjacent shop called Super-Turk. Bursts of hot sun gave way to dark cloud, and the weather echoed his confusion. He thought he should ring Terry. He had his phone in his hand, working out what to say, when it rang. He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Rex.’

  He sighed. ‘What do you want, Ellie?’

  She was on a busy road somewhere. ‘Don’t hang up. I know I owe you big time. And I’ve got something for you. Friendly prison admin lady I know told me Yitzhak Schild was beaten up in Pentonville this morning.’

  ‘I knew that already.’

  ‘Yeah, well what you definitely don’t know is the experience seems to have brought about a change of heart in Yitzhak. He’s retracted his confession. Says he didn’t do it.’

  Rex took this in.

  ‘You still there? Does it even the score, Rex? Are we okay?’

  He hung up.

  He got on a bus. It was rammed with tiny Greek-Cypriot widows and their shopping trollies. He had to stand, leaning his forehead against the filigreed metal of the rail, hoping it might cool and calm his mind.

  Sam Greenhill didn’t do it. Yitzie Schild was now saying he didn’t. That didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty, of course, but the change of heart meant something. He realised he’d never been quite sure of Yitzie’s guilt in the first place, or at least, not understood his apparent motives. And the less plausible they seemed, the more his suspicions seemed to rush elsewhere, like blood going into a numb limb.

  From the outset he’d assumed Terry’s innocence. He’d accepted it in the way he accepted that his foot would hurt every time he put it on the pavement, or that someone would always be digging a hole on Green Lanes.

  Once he’d let in the dreadful, heretical thought that Terry was hiding something, others flocked to the cause. Memories he’d ignored, episodes he’d struggled to see in a harmless light. The violent rages and the mood swings. The entirely different Terry who’d been much in evidence of late.

  Rex thought back to the ‘How to spot a terrorist’ leaflet they’d all laughed at in the office. It didn’t seem quite so funny now, given that one of their own colleagues had attended a sermon from a notorious hate-preacher. He’d also kept a copy of the Koran at his bedside, given up alcohol, responded to a muezzin’s call and all in all seemed to have a whole alternative existence going on.

  There’s things you don’t know about. Things that I’m involved in, that are going to make a difference…

  What the hell had he meant by that? And why had he claimed he was going to Riga and then headed to Gateshead?

  Them freaky ones up in Gateshead.

  Rex remembered Terry had said that at the park. And Dordoff and his relation on the end of the phone had studied there. Of course. There was a large Jewish community up in Gateshead. A big yeshiva.

  Some of those who’d attended that sermon were carrying out its instructions on the streets of Haringey. Was it possible that Terry was on the brink of doing the same, up north?

  He remembered more of the puzzling encounters he’d had with his friend over the past weeks.

  They don’t listen do they? Dressing up like that.

  Terry had said that in the park, watching the Muslim boys in their camouflage and Eastern-looking trousers as they parroted the preacher they’d all just heard – Terry along with them. It wasn’t that Terry had a problem with their beliefs, only the fact that they were drawing attention to themselves. Whereas he wasn’t. He was, to all but those who’d known him especially well, the same old Terry.

  What if the link between the deaths of the Bettelheims and Dr Kovacs wasn’t Yitzhak Schild? What if it was Terry? Was it possible?

  He rang Terry’s number. It went straight to voicemail. The Cypriot Grannies got off, as one, at Shopping City and he found a seat. He managed to search for Gateshead and Jewish on the tiny screen of his telephone, and found the number of the yeshiva.

  That was useless, though. What could he tell them? There was only one person he could call. He wasn’t sure he would listen, though. He wasn’t sure he’d blame him either.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked D.S. Brenard urgently, after Rex had explained why he was calling. To his surprise, the policeman seemed to be taking him very seriously indeed.

  ‘On a bus, crawling past W.H. Smith’s.’

  ‘I’ll be at your house in ten minutes,’ was all Brenard said before hanging up.

  He was true to his word, and as Rex finally turned onto the little lane that led to his house, no less than two cars were pulling up outside it. One contained Brenard. From the other stepped three burly, crew-cut, unsmiling types, who looked like rugby-players in borrowed suits.

  ‘Who are your friends?’

  ‘ATU,’ Brenard said sullenly. ‘Anti-Terror Unit. We have to call them in if there’s anything terror-related.’

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ Rex said. He surveyed the flat-nosed bruisers bulging in their suits. ‘Earl Grey or Darjeeling, gents?’

  He didn’t make any tea, of course, just dumped his orange carrier bag in the hall and switched the DVD player on.

  ‘I thought this might explain the person pushing women into the traffic, and I was going to look into that. Then I heard Terry had gone to Gateshead – there’s a large Jewish community there – and, well, he’s been very odd lately.’

  The terror-goons didn’t speak, just played and replayed bits of the DVD. One of them was wearing very strong aftershave.

  ‘Odd in what way?’ Brenard asked.

  ‘Very aggressive. Very secretive.’ Rex listed everything he could think of, before faltering at the final detail. ‘He’s…’ As he was about to say it, he realised how bizarre it seemed, and how little it fitted with the theory of Terry-as-terrorist. ‘Right. He’s become obsessed with the book Dr Kovacs was writing. Trying to piece it together from his notes. It’s more or less all he talks about. That’s why he was going to Riga.’

  ‘Why he said he was going to Riga,’ one of the ATU men pointed out. ‘Not a bad cover. His friends think he’s obsessed with one thing. Really he’s obsessed with something else. They often have a cover – a fake girlfriend, a new businesses – something that explains why they’re not around.’

  Rex was silent. It was a convincing theory. After all, he’d never actually seen Terry doing any research. And when he’d been lookin
g over the files with Lawrence, he’d had a fit and smashed a chair. It had just never seemed… right.

  He and Brenard looked at the TV screen, where the wobbly footage of the sermon was just beginning.

  ‘Thing is,’ Brenard mused, ‘apart from being a moody sod and being at that… talk or whatever it is, he hasn’t done anything, has he? Unlike the bloke who’s been shoving women into the road.’

  ‘Is he on there, too?’ Rex asked, pointing at the TV.

  ‘That’s one of things we’re looking for, isn’t it?’ said another of the ATU men tersely.

  ‘Problem is,’ Brenard added, ‘we’ve got no useful images or descriptions. We know he has a big beard, which covers just about every trendy Media Studies student in Haringey these days. Also, there’s no definite indication that he’s doing what he’s doing in the name of Muhammad or what-have-you.’

  ‘Is there any pattern in the victims?’

  ‘Not clear. He’s done it three times so far. One African lady, one Greek, one…’ Brenard winced. ‘…Welsh. My wife, in fact.’

  ‘Jesus. Is she okay?’

  ‘She is. She does think he shouted something like Allahu akbar as he shoved her in front of the number 55 to Baker’s Arms. But her mother, who was with her, thinks he shouted ‘Get back!’, which is making for an interesting atmosphere in my house right now. So then we looked back at the other two. The African lady was wearing a large cross as she went down Philip Lane. The Greek lady was standing at the corner of Amhurst Park and Stamford Hill and…’

  ‘Might possibly have been mistaken for Jewish?’

  ‘It’s a theory. Or enough of one for Commander Bailey to call in our colleagues and… Ah.’

  The goons had stood up and appeared to be ready to go. The largest one had a red face and a bullet-shaped head. With the DVD in his hand, he advanced on Rex as if he was about to rugby-tackle him.

  ‘Do you want a receipt?’ he asked, in a surprisingly posh voice.

  ‘Keep it,’ Rex said.

  The goons trooped out. D.S. Brenard looked at him.

  ‘We’ll have to put a search out for Terry. And do me a favour, Rex. Don’t contact him. If you hear from him, or you find anything else, call me. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. By the way. We got the results on the blood patch. No matches. But I’m instructed to thank you for the –’

  Brenard stopped speaking because someone else had just walked through the door.

  ‘Rex, who were those–’

  It was Rescha Schild, laden with carrier bags and boxes from the shops on Wood Green High Street.

  She fell silent when she saw Brenard. Rex observed the policeman’s eyes narrowing, pondering, hunting for the angle and the possible wrong-doing. When nothing came to mind, he gave a curt nod and stalked out.

  ‘Why was he here?’ Rescha asked anxiously, as she put the bags down.

  ‘It’s about Terry.’

  ‘Your friend?’

  He felt a prick of sadness as she said that. Was Terry his friend? He looked at all her shopping.

  ‘Did you win on the scratchcards?’

  She looked puzzled and he realised his last sentence had meant nothing to her. ‘I mean – what’s with all the shopping?’

  She sat on a chair and pulled a brand-new handbag out of one of the carriers. It was bright green. It matched the scarf she’d put on round her neck, he realised.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve got a cousin… well, maybe not a cousin, but she’s some kind of relative. She left. Went to live with a goy. Years ago. She lives near Paris. I can stay with her for a while, she says. So!’ She patted the bag happily. ‘That’s what I’m going to do. A new start. New everything. Do you like this bag?’

  ‘It’s… it’s very unlike your other one,’ was the best Rex could manage, as Rescha began to empty stuff out of the old shabby tan bag onto his table. ‘Rescha – are you sure you should do this so suddenly?’

  She looked at him. ‘What’s sudden? I dreamt about leaving since I was eight years old.’ She busied herself with the handbag for a moment, fussing with the zip. Still looking down, she said, ‘Actually I was wondering… could you help me?’

  ‘How?’

  She looked up. ‘I have a passport – because we were all planning to go to Dukovce about eight years ago. It didn’t happen. Anyway, I don’t… I’ve never been out of this part of London. I’m serious. I know there’s a train, now, to Paris, but I don’t know how to get on it, or buy a ticket. Could you help me?’

  ‘So you’re leaving Yitzie.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘He did those… terrible things. Why do I need to stay?’

  ‘But he’s pleading not guilty.’

  She didn’t look surprised that Rex knew. ‘He got beaten in there. He’s realised what prison is going to be like for an old man who’s been able to bully people all his life. So now he’s changed his story. You want me to tell you all the things that man did to me? You want to know what he was really like?’

  She had become agitated. Rex held up a hand in surrender.

  ‘It’s easy to get a ticket. I’ll show you.’ He went over to the little desk in the corner of his living room and switched on his laptop. ‘You can have this, if you like.’ He took a slim, red, plastic-backed book from the shelf above the desk. ‘It’s got all the maps of Paris in there.’

  She stowed the A-Z in her new bag, nodding thanks.

  ‘What exactly happened to him in there?’ Rex asked, as they waited for his seriously outmoded machine to be ready.

  Rescha made a sort of facial shrug. ‘He shouted at some boy in the canteen. Because of his allergies, you know, there’s a lot of things he can’t eat. Eggs, milk, wheat – he can’t go near them… The boy didn’t like the way Yitzie spoke to him.’

  Rex showed her the booking page on the Eurostar website and asked her where she’d like to sit. She stared from him to the carriage layout map, with something like panic in her eyes, until he chose a seat for her. He booked a ticket for the following morning, and printed up the slip she’d need to take with her.

  ‘Where are you going after Gare du Nord?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to Paris,’ she said, frowning.

  As he walked to the office, twenty minutes later, he felt uneasy. Rescha Schild wasn’t his responsibility. But all the same, he wondered how she’d cope on her journey. Did she even know how to get to St Pancras? He’d told her, of course, and she’d nodded, but all the while looked like a frightened child trying to seem otherwise, something almost pleading in her eyes. She ran a business, he reminded himself. But it was a business in the fenced-off 19th century village of Stamford Hill. She’d made it to Pentonville to visit Yitzie, as well, but prisons made things easy for outsiders. Every step of the way there was someone barking orders at you. He’d given her his phone number. Told her she could call him. But would she know how to?

  The office was locked. Even the lights in the foyer were off. Some sort of call centre had recently moved in next door, and two young men who worked there, dressed in cheap suits and short woollen coats, were having a smoke outside. They were often there, and Rex always thought they looked like old pictures of recruits from the trenches, with their sallow skin and their underfed faces. He made an enquiring face.

  ‘They all left about an hour ago,’ said one young man helpfully.

  ‘Anyone say anything?’ Rex asked.

  The young man ground his fag out with a pointy, buckled shoe. ‘Fat cow had a right gob on her.’

  ‘My wife, you mean? Yes, she’s having a hard time coping with the diagnosis.’

  When the boys had scuttled, red-faced, back inside, Rex rang Susan. ‘What’s going on?’

  She sighed. ‘I’ve decided, in light of the uncertainty, not to bring out a paper or update the site for the moment.’

  ‘What uncertainty, Susan?’

  ‘I’ve been hoping for a rescue plan. That now looks
unlikely. I can’t really say any more. Have a few days off, Rex.’

  ‘They aren’t going to be days off exactly, if I haven’t got a job to come back to, are they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have I got a job to come back to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, Rex, I really can’t say anything else right now.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t right now?’

  ‘I can’t right now,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’ She hung up.

  He drifted towards Shopping City, although there was nothing he wanted in there, and never was. He felt dazed, stunned, and for once, he knew it was nothing to do with the pills. There seemed to be nothing, no single person nor institution nor corner of his existence upon which he could still depend. If Shopping City had magically transformed from a gaudy brand-name behemoth into a replica of the Istanbul Spice Market, he wouldn’t have been that surprised.

  It had not, of course. The old Turks were still frowning on their benches in the main hall, with a bewildered air, as if the place had somehow sprung up around them. Upstairs, the young mums were still cursing at their kids in the buggies, and their other kids out of the buggies. The plastic gangbangers – in reality mostly students at the old tech college – were still showing off their exaggerated walks and their elaborately shaven hairdos outside the sports shop. Wood Green was carrying on as per, completely indifferent to the existence or otherwise of Rex, and News North London.

  Suddenly he had an idea. He went into the Primark and bought himself a cheap, folding cagoule. It wasn’t his sort of thing, but Rex had spent many a spring in Paris, and he knew it was always raining.

  In the atrium a small crowd was gathered in front of the big Sky News screens. As he descended on the escalators, Rex’s heart flipped. He could see the emergency vehicles on the screen, the yellow incident tape. He’d already pictured the ticker-tape legend: Gateshead Siege.

  But it was only the Junior Minister. The one who’d worn the SS outfit to the Constituency Fancy Dress do. This time he’d crashed his car into a tree. Wasn’t expected to survive. It didn’t seem right to chuckle, but Rex nearly did, his relief was so great.