Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Harry’s head snapped around, his expression hard.

  Izzy felt herself cringe; her focus quickly returning.

  After taking a long swallow from his pint, and placing the empty glass on the table, Harry looked her in the eye.

  Izzy realised she was holding her breath.

  ‘Dealing drugs,’ he said.

  ‘Not murder... or rape, then?’ she said, sounding and feeling relieved.

  ‘Not charged with, no,’ he replied.

  Izzy looked at him sharply; totally focused.

  ‘Joking,’ said Harry, grinning broadly.

  She told him he didn’t strike her as a drugs dealer. Not that she was really sure what a drugs dealer looked like, other than the characters on television.

  ‘I wasn’t a drugs dealer. I was jailed for a crime I didn’t commit.’

  ‘You didn’t deal drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They put you in jail and you were innocent?’

  ‘I didn’t say I was innocent. I just didn’t deal drugs.’

  ‘You’re a criminal?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked, wide eyed. ‘Crime, I mean. What sort of crime did you do?’

  ‘I used to work for a man who needed things doing.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘The kind of things nobody else would do - or could be trusted to do.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘It’s better you don’t know.’

  ‘Who’s the man you used to work for?’

  ‘His name is Mr Solomon. He’s also known by some, as “The Jew” -’

  ‘Because he’s Jewish?’

  ‘Amazingly, yes,’ said Harry, with a raised eyebrow. ‘But not to his face. If it’s illegal, he’s involved in it: prostitution, loan sharking, money laundering and gambling, to name but a few. He’s the kind of man that would stoop to anything.’ Izzy saw Harry pause. ‘Except drugs. He never got involved with drugs.’

  ‘He sounds an unsavoury character,’ she said.

  ‘On the surface, he’s a refined and charming gentleman in his seventies. An accountant by trade. And he does run a legitimate property business. If you were to meet him, you would never guess he was a major criminal. Or that once he gets his hooks into you, he never lets go.’

  ‘Yet, he let you go?’

  Harry gave a small nod as he checked his watch. ‘We have a mutual understanding.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Izzy.

  ‘He doesn’t interfere with my new life, and I won’t kill him.’

  Izzy searched Harry’s face for humour. But found none. ‘Have you ever -’

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, standing to put his jacket on. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  Izzy again apologised for the story she’d published, reassuring him it would soon be forgotten, and probably wouldn’t attract too much attention anyway.

  Harry told her about Patrick and his daughter, Mollie.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, as he zipped up his jacket.

  ‘Hey,’ she exclaimed excitedly, ‘I can help you find her. I am an investigative reporter, after all,’ she said, knocking over her empty glass. ‘Oh, bollocks...’

  ‘Again, thanks for the drink. I really did enjoy it.’

  Izzy then watched Harry leave.

  ‘New boyfriend?’ said a voice, startling Izzy from her daydream. James, the barman - who was supposed to be collecting glasses - flopped into Harry’s recently vacated seat. ‘Hm, still warm.’

  ‘Not my type,’ said Izzy.

  ‘Still with Jonathan, then?’ said James. ‘He hasn’t come out yet?’ James - who was gay and made no secret of it - often teased Izzy about Jonathan’s sexuality.

  ‘No!’ she said. Then, realising the implication, ‘I mean, no, he’s not gay,’ she added.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said James, letting it drop. ‘So who is he?’

  ‘He’s a guy I recently wrote a piece about.’

  ‘The guy in the pub fight?’ he said. ‘That’s Dirty Harry?’

  ‘Dirty Harry?’

  ‘That’s what people have been calling him,’ replied James.

  Izzy pondered this, realising she’d missed an opportunity to make the story bigger. ‘OK, genius,’ she said, ‘what is my type?

  ‘Harry is your type. Mean, moody, and deliciously dangerous,’ said James, with dramatic flair.

  ‘But why would someone like him be my type?’

  ‘Because it would take someone like him to keep a stroppy minx like you in line,’ he replied.

  Maybe it was due to drink, but Izzy wasn’t offended by this theory. Raising her hand, she then gave him the finger. ‘I think I’d better go home,’ she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. ‘I feel a bit squiffy - and I’ve only had a couple.’

  ‘And the rest, darling. And the rest,’ said James.

  CHAPTER 7

  After a pleasant, but unexpected, turn of events, Harry was finally back at home, reclining in a worn yet comfortable Chesterfield armchair. Cupped in the palm of one hand, was a glass tumbler of Scotch whisky with a single ice cube, in his other, a book. His eyes were closed. Cole Porter - one of his mother’s old vinyl records - was softly playing in the background, accompanied by the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock, and the hiss and crackle of an open fire. It hadn’t been long since he’d left Isobelle Harker, and he was feeling the need to unwind.

  He opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. He was in his study, the only room he hadn’t altered. It was almost wall-to-wall with bookcases containing classic and modern literature - most of which he’d read, old trophies for golf - his foster brother’s, and old trophies for boxing - his. The remaining wall space was covered with posters advertising stage shows, photos of Lillian performing on stage or with actors past and present, and family photos of Lillian, Harry and his foster brother in their earlier years. Antique furniture and an old upright piano filled the rest of the room. It was very much the way it had been when his mother had passed away. Some would say - if they dared - it was a shrine.

  Harry’s gaze was drawn to the flames of the fire. He found the way they flickered and danced mesmerising. He briefly mused whether there actually were smokeless zones in London, and if he was in one. Not that he gave a shit. Harry had never been one to follow the rules. After all, what could they do to him? Fine him? Put him in jail... again? This thought brought a smile to his face. He was feeling mellow from the whisky and the warmth of the fire. He leaned his head back and let the memories wash over him, back to the first day he’d arrived at this house.

  Accompanied - or had it been escorted? - by a stern faced social worker, a twelve year old Henry Windsor arrived outside the door of his new home. But not before he’d been washed, had his hair neatly combed, and put on his best pair of shorts and a necktie that felt like it was strangling him. When the front door opened, they were greeted by a tall elegant lady with a bright beaming smile. Acknowledging the social worker with a courteous nod, she then looked down at Harry. ‘You must be Henry Windsor,’ she said, smiling and holding out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Henry. Welcome to your new home.’

  Harry risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the social worker who was blocking any route of escape. In return, the social worker fixed Harry with a firm and meaningful stare. Having received a clip across the back of the head not five minutes previously for being cheeky, Harry turned back to the elegant lady and limply shook her hand. ‘Harry,’ he said, scowling.

  ‘My name is Lillian,’ the elegant lady replied, ‘and this is Stephen,’ she said, indicating a boy who was standing behind her, a head taller than Harry, with a scowl on his baby face equal to that of Harry’s.

  After cake and tea in china cups, and the social worker having left, Lillian took Harry up to his room, where he placed the small holdall that contained his few belongings onto his new bed. He didn’t b
other to unpack, he wasn’t planning on staying long. He never stayed anywhere long. That night, Harry ran away from his new home. The following day he was returned by the police. A few days later he ran away again, and again he was returned by the police.

  Over the following six months, he ran away half a dozen times. Each time he was returned, Lillian would ask him to go to his room while she made tea for the police officers, which they would drink in the parlour. Lillian would thank them for their patience, while explaining about Harry’s difficult childhood. Once the officers had left, Harry would then be invited down for dinner, and nothing more would be said.

  The last time Harry ran away was after his foster brother had seen him smoking and grassed him up to Lillian. Lillian’s response had been to light one of her own cigarettes, hand it to Harry, and tell him to “enjoy”, while she explained the dangers of smoking. When Harry pointed out that Lillian smoked, Lillian informed him it was legal for her to smoke, and besides, it was too late for a woman of her age, yet not for a young man like Henry, who had his whole life ahead of him.

  Harry hung his head in shame.

  Later that afternoon, Harry once more packed his few possessions into his holdall. He then sought out his foster brother, and promptly broke his nose with a right jab punch. However, any hopes of him making a clean getaway out through the front door were dashed when Lillian, on hearing cries of pain, stepped out from the study and into the hallway. Taking in the now familiar holdall and the look of grim determination on Harry’s face, Lillian asked him if he was running away again, to which Harry didn’t respond.

  ‘Are you not happy living here, Henry?’ she asked. Harry just shuffled from one foot to the other, inspected the black and white chess board patterned tiled floor, and pondered that deep and meaningful question.

  Of course Harry knew what happy meant; it was the opposite of sad. While happy wasn’t an emotion he’d been overly familiar with in his young life, sad was an emotion he was all too familiar with.

  Harry settled on a shrug of the shoulders in answer to Lillian’s question.

  ‘Why do you want to leave us?’ Lillian asked. ‘Do you not like being part of a family?’

  Harry really wanted to answer Lillian. He really wanted to tell her he wasn’t used to people being nice to him, treating him with kindness, that he found it confusing.

  But he didn’t.

  With sadness in her eyes, Lillian wrapped her arms around Harry’s skinny little body, and pulled him into a warm embrace. Harry didn’t return the hug. He stood ramrod straight, arms down by his sides, confused, trying to remember if he’d ever been hugged before. His eyes then started to sting, he could feel a lump in his throat, and he was finding it difficult to swallow.

  He realised, with horror, he was on the verge of crying.

  After Lillian had released him from her embrace, she then turned away to pick something up from the surface of the small table usually reserved for deliveries of mail, newspapers, and door keys. Turning back to Harry, she pressed a Yale-type key into the palm of his hand, placed a kiss on his forehead, and then told him she loved him as if he were her own son, and that he would always have a home there should he want it. ‘You should allow yourself to be happy, Henry,’ she said, before returning to the study.

  After a couple of very long minutes had passed, Harry heard the piano being softly played. He let himself out through the front door, and walked down the garden path to the front gate, still able to feel Lillian’s warm wet kiss. It occurred to him he probably had lipstick on his forehead, yet he made no attempt to wipe it off. He paused at the gate to look back at the house, at his home, to hear the faint sound of music - accompanied by the girlish sobbing of his foster brother.

  He grinned as he closed the gate.

  A few hours later found him sitting alone on a children’s playground swing, as dusk fell. Being in a North London park at night held no fears for Harry, he was afraid of nothing; he was a fighter, had to be, being small for his age he’d often suffered at the hands of bullies during his time in care homes. But on the streets of London, he’d learned to fight - and to win.

  Now though, he was thinking.

  Lillian was in the study, teaching Harry’s foster brother how to play the piano, when she heard the faint rattle of a key in the front door lock. A few moments later, Harry sauntered into the room, heading for the chair next to the fire, pausing only briefly to choose a book from the bookcase. Aware Lillian and his foster brother were watching him, he simply said, ‘Looks like rain,’ as if by way of an explanation. After hopping up onto the big chair, and with his legs to short to reach the floor, he opened up the book and began to quietly read.

  Lillian silently watched, before turning back to the piano.

  From that point, Harry allowed himself to be happy - or at least he tried to. Like Harry, Stephen had been orphaned, and had spent time in care homes and with foster families. Neither boy found it easy to ‘play’, to do what would otherwise come naturally to other boys of their age, but over the following few years, they did at times manage to forget the horrors of their past, and play with abandoned joy, racing around the big house, laughter bouncing off the walls.

  Lillian’s home was always a busy home. There was always something going on. Whenever Lillian’s fellow actors visited the house to read through their lines for their new and up and coming stage production, Harry and his foster brother would often be given bit parts: conscripted soldiers or Legionnaires with full battle dress of table cloth cloak and sweeping brush sword. When Lillian wasn’t working in the theatre, she’d give singing or acting lessons to young hopefuls.

  All these talented and creative people brought vibrancy to Lillian’s home - to Harry’s home.

  Harry opened his eyes and took a sip of whisky. Fond memories. His gaze settled on a wall-hung certificate his foster brother had been awarded for something-or-other, sending his thoughts along a different path.

  Due to the instability of Harry’s home life, his schooling had always been somewhat erratic, and thus, had produced one of the more shameful moments of his young life. Shameful in that it was the first time his actions had made Lillian cry. Something of which he was not proud; still to this day there remained an element of guilt.

  Harry hated going to school. He hated the rigid rules for behaviour and time keeping, and being told what he could and could not do. He was constantly bullied, which often resulted in a fight, for which he would then be disciplined with detention after school hours or corporal punishment. Harry always preferred the latter, because it was over within a matter of minutes, and the pain didn’t bother him too much.

  But one day, Harry went too far.

  Two of his classmates - who were sitting behind him - were whispering taunts to him about Lillian being a “thespian”, or was it a “lesbian”? The teacher, who noticed that Harry wasn’t paying attention, dragged him out of his seat and up to the front of the class, where he had to suffer the admonishment and ridicule of the teacher, much to the amusement of the rest of the class.

  As Harry returned to his seat, the two boys again whispered taunts, but as they did so, Harry felt a sudden hot searing pain at the back of his eyes, as anger, rage and frustration shot through his brain. Picking up a newly sharpened pencil from his desk-top, he then stabbed it into the shoulder of one of the boys, feeling the pencil point burst through the thick fabric of the boy’s school blazer, to bury itself into the soft flesh of his armpit.

  The other boy, who’d got his hinged, desk-top lid vertically open, could only look-on in frozen surprise as Harry, with all his might, slammed the desk-top lid closed, breaking most, if not all of the boy’s fingers that rested on the lip of the desk.

  The Headmaster himself accompanied Harry home to personally deliver the news to Lillian; that Harry’s conduct was not acceptable within his school, and to expel him was the only option. Any possibility of a reprieve was soon dashed when it also became apparent that the articulately written
letters explaining Harry’s often frequent absences had not been written by Lillian. After the Headmaster had left, Harry was sent to his room, where he was able to hear the sound of gentle crying, coming from below.

  Some hours later, found Harry in the street outside his house, idly kicking a football against a wall, feeling thoroughly dejected and the lowest-of-the-low at having made Lillian cry. He hadn’t seen Lillian all afternoon. The door to the study, which was usually open, had been firmly closed to uninvited guests. Harry thought he’d heard hushed tones, suggesting Lillian had been talking to someone on the phone, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Out in the street, Harry looked on as a large majestic car pulled up to the kerb; a vintage Bentley. The driver had got out to open the rear door, for an elderly gentleman to then emerge. He was well dressed in a three piece tweed suit, with a crisp white shirt and necktie. In his hand he carried a silver tipped cane.

  The elderly gentleman paused at the gate to Harry’s home, before then looking over at Harry, to study him for a few moments. Harry didn’t know why, but he found the old man’s level gaze and calm demeanour unsettling.

  ‘Would you like to wash my car?’ the elderly gentleman asked, in a quiet, well spoken voice.

  ‘Sorry?’ replied a bewildered Harry.

  ‘My car. Would you like to wash it for me?’ he said, pointing the tip of his cane towards his car. ‘I’ll pay you for your trouble.’

  Harry looked at the car. It was spotlessly clean. It was also beautiful, in immaculate condition, and no doubt worth a lot of money. If he were to accidentally scratch it... He shuddered at the thought.