Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Harry studied the man. He could see, and sense, a physical and mental strength that bordered on bullying arrogance and which no doubt served him well in dealing with life’s ups and downs, but Harry could also sense a genuine fear in the man; of what, he couldn’t be sure.

  Reaching into his shirt top pocket, Patrick withdrew its contents, which he then placed onto the table, before sliding across to Harry. ‘I’ll pay you five thousand to find her,’ said Patrick.

  Harry looked into Patrick’s eyes, and knew he was serious. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up his knife and fork to finish his breakfast.

  Patrick coughed to clear his throat. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench seat, trying to suppress his anger and impatience; he was used to getting his own way. ‘Ten thousand and not a penny more,’ said Patrick. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’ll leave it,’ replied Harry, between a mouthful of bacon and egg, while studying the crossword.

  ‘Damn you!’ said Patrick, slamming a clenched fist down onto the table, rattling crockery, spilling tea and coffee, and sending out a thunderclap of noise around the cafe, which was instantly followed by a hushed silence.

  The suddenness and volume of Patrick’s outburst had taken Harry by surprise, making him flinch like a frightened rabbit. But the feeling of fear was only brief, instantly replaced by anger; anger at having his time interrupted, and anger at feeling and - more importantly - showing fear.

  A dark look crossed Harry’s face as he stared at the cause of those feelings.

  Patrick knew he’d gone too far. He rested his forearms on the table, his shoulders slumped, head down.

  Angry and tense, Harry watched and waited for Patrick’s next move. Seeing the big man’s body shaking, and anticipating the possibility of Patrick suddenly lashing out, Harry was again taken by surprise when he realised the big Irishman was crying. Huge spasms wracked the man’s body, made all the more violent by his trying to suppress them.

  Harry was now feeling embarrassed. He was embarrassed because of the attention this scene was attracting, and he was feeling embarrassed for the man sitting opposite. He was at a total loss as what to do, or what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick, once he’d managed to compose himself. Then, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘Please, help me find my baby girl,’ he said, searching Harry’s face for a sign of compassion, acknowledgement, agreement.

  Seeing none, he slowly dragged himself to his feet, and left.

  Harry watched the big man shuffle out of the door. He looked down at his half eaten breakfast, no longer feeling hungry. He pushed his plate aside. Patrick’s heartfelt plea had touched a place deep inside Harry. A place that had been touched only once in recent years, and that was at the loss of his mother.

  The cafe Waitress arrived to clear the table. ‘I can’t wait to see who’s going to join you for breakfast tomorrow,’ she said, as she mopped up the spillage.

  Harry scowled at her, and then told her to fuck off, as he tried to shake the gloomy thoughts and feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. He looked down at the objects Patrick had left on the table: two Yale keys and a business card with the name, Patrick Dolan, Property Developer. The third item was a small photograph of a dark haired young woman who appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties. He didn’t touch the objects. Instead, he picked up the North London Gazette to read Isobelle Harker’s report in full.

  Harry noted the elderly couple from the pub had asked Isobelle not to print their names. He also noted with curiosity that she had used Harry’s forename only. It was not that she had only printed his forename Harry found curious, but that Patrick had known Harry’s surname.

  CHAPTER 6

  Izzy was sitting on her sofa, in her flat in Camden, sipping a large glass of chilled wine, often enough and deep enough to suggest she still hadn’t got over Jonathan standing her up.

  They’d arranged to meet up after work, at a bistro in Soho in the West End, they hadn’t seen each other for five days, due to one or the other being busy. Despite turning up fifteen minutes late - which was early for Izzy, punctuality not being one of her strong points - Jonathan still hadn’t yet arrived, so she’d taken a table near the window and in sight of the entrance. Two large glasses of white wine, five attempts to call Jonathan’s mobile, and fifty minutes later, Izzy had had enough, and left to go home. It was three hours after that before she finally managed to contact Jonathan, who was in a bar in the West End with a group of his rugby mates, all of whom, judging by the background noise, were clearly drunk. Jonathan claimed he’d called her and left a message to say he would be late, but when she never returned his call, he’d assumed she was either working on a “big story”, or she was in one of her ‘moods’, so he’d gone to meet his friends. When he suggested coming around to her flat, she’d told him not to bother.

  If Izzy had had lots of friends, she would have made alternative arrangements. Sadly, she didn’t. London was a big city, crammed with millions of people, yet it could also be a lonely city. So, to cheer herself up, she had a long soak in a steaming hot bath, filled with aromatic oils, while sipping a glass of chilled white wine and listening to some ‘atmospheric’ music; the sound of waves gently breaking on the seashore, accompanied by the sound of pan pipes. It was hardly cutting edge classical, but she liked it. When she started to fall asleep, spilling wine into the bath water, she knew it was time to get out. After wrapping her lobster-pink body in an old-but-familiar bathrobe, and putting on oversized slippers that were shaped like an elephant’s head, she shuffled into the kitchen to put a ‘convenience’ meal into the microwave oven, before then flopping onto the sofa with a fresh glass of wine, to relax. Moments later, though, she was having a hot flush, so she loosened the belt to her bathrobe, and, grasping the lapels of the robe, fanned herself in an attempt to cool down.

  It was at this point when she heard the knock at the door to her flat.

  Placing her wine to one side, she struggled off the sofa; a little too quickly, because she suddenly felt faint. For a moment she stood, shakily, trying to focus, wondering if she was going to fall over. A bit more cold water, next time, she thought.

  As she headed down the hallway to the front door, she silently cursed the old man on the ground floor for once again not properly closing the outer door; and she cursed Jonathan for ignoring her orders not to come around to her flat.

  The sound of knocking came again.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, as she threw open the front door and prepared herself to glare into Jonathan’s eyes, only to find herself looking at an Adam’s apple. She looked up, instead, into the eyes of Harry Windsor.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, handing her a bottle of red wine and breezing past, heading down the hallway towards her lounge.

  ‘Come in, why don’t you,’ she said to his retreating back. And I prefer white.

  Closing the door, she hurried after him, fussing with her hair as she went. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. Then, realising, ‘How did you find me? Did someone at the office tell you where I live? Because if they did -’

  ‘Friend-of-a-friend, sort of thing,’ replied Harry.

  ‘You’ve got friends?’ responded Izzy.

  ‘World’s full of surprises,’ he said, now standing in the middle of her lounge, looking at an ornate fireplace above which hung a very large mirror.

  Izzy entered the room to then stand protectively in front of the fireplace; still clutching the bottle of wine. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, looking up at him and realising just how tall he was.

  ‘I was... just passing,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Are you on your own?’

  Izzy suddenly realised, to her horror, that her robe was still slightly open, making her conscious of her nakedness beneath, and leaving her feeling slightly vulnerable. ‘My fiancée is coming round for dinner, soon,’ she replied, pulling her robe closed and tightening the belt one-handed. ‘Very soon, in fact.’

  ‘Are you feel
ing sick?’ Harry asked her.

  ‘Sick? Why? What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re very pink, and you appear to have a fever.’

  ‘Oh. I see. No, I’ve just had a bath.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt she’d just confirmed to the man standing before her that she was naked beneath her robe, leaving her feeling even more vulnerable. ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea you being here... now... at this moment. I mean, I hardly know you.’

  ‘There are a lot of people in North London who now know me a lot better, thanks to you.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I didn’t print your full name. Nobody will know it’s you,’ she said. ‘There must be hundreds of Harrys in North London. Even if the police did find you, you were defending yourself. They don’t jail people for self-defence.’

  ‘The law doesn’t work like that. I approached them. I struck the first blow.’

  ‘Even so, I’m sure they wouldn’t convict you on that - especially as it’s your first offence.’ When Harry didn’t reply, ‘It is your first offence, isn’t it?’ she asked, a little worried.

  ‘Nice flat,’ said Harry, looking around the room.

  Izzy’s mind was now running riot, conjuring up all types of scenarios and ill deeds this man may have committed, increasing her feeling of vulnerability and the desperate need to have people around her - even Jonathan. ‘Look, how about I buy you a drink in the pub across the road, to say sorry,’ she said, desperate to get him out of her flat. ‘I’ll just get dressed,’ she quickly added, hurrying from the room, not waiting for an answer.

  While she dressed, Harry looked around. The book case held a variety of books, classical and modern - only some of which appeared to have been read. Also CDs: a few old favourites like Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, a lot of main stream pop, and a few new bands Harry had never heard of. There were a number of ‘artistically hip’ prints, hanging on the pastel coloured walls. Harry wasn’t sure if ‘artistically hip’ was the correct description for that particular type of art, but what he did know was they weren’t Constable or Picasso. Candles and silk scarfs adorned the room. Very girly, he thought.

  He poked his head into the kitchen. The units were white Shaker, with Beech Block worktops; a style that didn’t fit with the young woman’s ‘girl-about-town’ image. Harry presumed the units were there before she was. Even so, she’d decorated it in much the same way she had the lounge, making it homely. A ping drew his attention to the microwave, which contained a ‘ready-meal’ for one.

  Izzy was pulling on her fashionably-tight, blue jeans, as fast as humanly possible, which did not seem fast enough to her, having to resort to flopping backwards onto her bed, and then writhing her hips and legs. Her haste was such, that she had her jeans half way up before she realised she’d forgotten to put underwear on. After pondering this dilemma for a microsecond, she continued pulling at her jeans, while wondering what people would think, should she be involved in an accident, taken to A&E, only for it to be discovered she wasn’t wearing any knickers. Feeling a sense of risqué liberation, she then surprised herself by abandoning her bra, also, pulling on a flimsy tight white tee-shirt covered only by a Burberry jacket.

  Mascara and lipstick were cursory, and applied in record breaking time.

  Harry gave the bathroom the quick once-over. There were still traces of steam from Izzy’s bathing, along with casually discarded underwear. There were two toothbrushes in a glass, and a man’s wet-shaving kit; but little else to suggest two people occupied the flat.

  Izzy ran a brush through her hair, before bursting out of the bedroom and into the lounge at a speed that she hoped suggested a matter-of-fact eagerness rather than frantic panic.

  She found Harry admiring her CD collection.

  As they crossed the road to the pub opposite, Izzy asked Harry where he’d parked his car, because it was a ‘residents’ parking area only’, and he might get a ticket. He told her he didn’t own a car, he’d caught the bus. Izzy thought for a moment before saying he would’ve had to make two changes to get from his place to her’s. Where exactly was he “passing” to?

  It was Harry’s turn to be surprised. ‘How do you know where I live?’

  ‘Your address was on your newspaper.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Harry, realising. ‘And my name?’

  ‘Electoral Register via Land Registry,’ she replied, simply.

  ‘Oh,’ said Harry, not realising.

  ‘So?’ she asked again.

  In reply, Harry asked about her dinner plans with her fiancée.

  They were both pleased to arrive at the pub.

  The pub was very busy, so while Harry went to find them a table, Izzy went to the bar. By the time the barman had pulled Harry’s pint of Guinness, she’d almost finished her large glass of white wine. Torn between appearing to be a greedy lush, by having another before she’d even had chance to sit down, or nursing what remained, she said to herself, ‘Fuck it, you only live once - unless of course you’re a Hindu... or is it a Buddhist?’ This made her giggle. She wondered if it was not wearing underwear that made her more adventurous.

  Harry watched Izzy as she finally returned to their table. He watched the way she wore her emotions. Anxious one moment, girlish glee the next. He struggled to suppress a smile.

  Izzy looked up at Harry’s steady gaze, and didn’t feel so giggly any more. After another large sip of Dutch courage, she then apologised for any trouble she may have caused. She hadn’t meant any harm. She explained to Harry how she had desperately wanted to prove she could get the story. ‘My editor doesn’t have much faith in me. And I think the owner of the newspaper is of the same opinion too,’ she told him.

  ‘Why would the owner take so much interest in one individual employee?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The owner just happens to be my father.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ replied Harry, who could see she was getting maudlin. ‘How long have you been a reporter?’

  ‘Almost a year. There was a position for a junior reporter, which I and numerous others were interviewed for, and I got it. I’m under no illusion it was down to my father, rather than the best person for the job. Geoff - my editor - said as much the day I started.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’ asked Harry.

  Izzy merely shrugged her shoulders, gazing into her now empty glass. ‘I’m not very good at things. I flunked college. My younger brother is a professor of psychology. My father is very proud of him.’

  Against his better judgment, Harry went and got another round of drinks in.

  Placing a small glass of wine in front of her, he said, ‘Sometimes it can take a while before you find what you’re good at. The important thing is to keep looking. It’ll turn up. You never know, reporting could be it.’

  Izzy looked at him quizzically, squinting slightly to focus. ‘Have you found what you’re good at?’

  Harry inclined his head slightly, indicating: maybe yes, maybe no.

  Izzy frowned, scrunching up her face in deep concentration. ‘What exactly do you do?’

  ‘There you go,’ said Harry, grinning, ‘thinking just like a reporter.’

  She theatrically wagged her finger at him, saying, ‘Oh, no you don’t. I’ve noticed you are very good at sidestepping questions.’

  Harry gave her a slight smile of acknowledgement.

  Izzy raised her eyebrows; waiting.

  ‘I’m turning my house into self-contained flats. The rent should give me a reasonable income.’

  ‘Not very exciting,’ responded Izzy. Then, realising, ‘Oh, God! Fuck! Sorry!’ she said, slapping both hands over her mouth and almost knocking her wine glass over, which Harry quickly caught. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just thought you probably did something more... interesting... if you know what I mean...’

  ‘Unexciting is fine with me,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t do “exciting” anymore.’

&n
bsp; For a while, they sipped their drinks. Harry casting his gaze about the pub, checking out the other drinkers, Izzy examining the bottom of her glass with great intent.

  Looking up at Harry, she said, ‘Do you have any family?’

  ‘A foster brother, Stephen,’ he replied, after a brief pause.

  ‘Are you close?’

  Harry gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Once.’

  ‘Not anymore?’

  ‘No,’ he said,‘...difference of opinions.’

  ‘Mother? Father?’ she asked.

  ‘Mother died a few years ago.’

  ‘And your father?’

  Harry didn’t answer.

  ‘Is he dead too?’

  ‘Not... that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Harry studied the young woman opposite him. Despite her bravado and her airs and graces, she was, at heart, naive and innocent, which Harry found quite endearing. She was also slightly drunk. ‘Are you planning on printing this?’

  ‘God, no! Of course not!’ she said, with genuine horror.

  Harry believed her - and Harry didn’t usually believe many people.

  ‘I’ve never met my father, so I don’t know who he is. Whether he’s alive or dead. I know nothing about him.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother tell you anything about him?’ she asked. ‘Nothing at all?’

  It was now Harry’s turn to examine the bottom of his glass.

  ‘Your mother must have told you something about him,’ she said, gently pressing him.

  ‘My mother... my foster mother, Lillian, didn’t have anything to tell - was able to tell. My biological mother died giving birth to me.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘That’s life - if you’ll pardon the bad pun. Can’t change anything.’

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘the brother you mentioned -’

  ‘Foster brother. No blood relative.’

  Izzy was unsure what to say next. She wasn’t always comfortable with long silences. Especially with strangers. She always felt the need to say something. She glanced at Harry, who was sipping his drink and looking around the pub, totally comfortable with himself and his surroundings. She, on the other hand, was not feeling so at ease; she was having difficulty in focusing, and she felt a little nauseous. She blinked a number of times. She had to concentrate on something; take her mind off feeling unwell. ‘What was your first offence for?’ she said, quickly, before she changed her mind.