Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  ‘Must be a big table,’ muttered Harry.

  ‘You enjoy a family get-together, Mr Salvatori?’ asked Izzy.

  ‘Sal, please call me Sal. Of course, I am Italian. I like to cook and I like to

  fu -’ Sal was distracted from finishing his sentence, by a well thrown boxing glove bouncing off the top of his head. ‘What?’ he said, arms askance.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Harry to Izzy, turning to leave, ‘I have to go take a shower.’

  ‘Need anyone to hold your towel for you?’ said Izzy, grinning broadly.

  Harry stopped in his tracks, as did Sal, both men staring at Izzy in surprise.

  Izzy stared back, realising her flippant remark hadn’t quite come across as she’d intended - in fact, she’d sounded like a common tart. She felt her face begin to heat up. ‘I’ll, err, pick you up on Sunday,’ she said to Harry, as she took a step backwards. ‘Mid-day.’ With that, she turned and fled.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said Sal, playfully jabbing Harry in the ribs, ‘she likes you. She fancies you. Eh? You can tell.’

  Harry merely gave Sal a look, before returning his gaze to a very embarrassed Izzy, as she hastened out of the door. ‘She’s certainly a strange one,’ replied Harry.

  ‘I said it before, kid. You ain’t getting any younger. Did you check out those child bearing hips? You need to give her some of that cockney-boy charm you used to be famous for when you were younger, and still could get-it-up. Impregnate her, make lots of bambinos, and be happy.’ Harry merely grunted, still watching the door, deep in thought. ‘Ah,’ said Sal, ‘if only I were younger...’

  Harry glanced at Sal. Then, throwing an arm across the older man’s shoulders, he looped a forearm around his neck, in a mock stranglehold, and said, ‘Since when did that ever stop you, you randy old fucker!’

  CHAPTER 15

  Harry entered Mollie’s flat once again, but not before pressing the intercom button on the outer door, just in case; and not before knocking on the door of the ground-floor flat to ask the reclusive, yet beady-eyed old woman if she’d seen Mollie recently. He took the shake of the wizened old face through the crack of the open door - prior to it being slammed firmly shut in his face - as a definite no.

  Inside the flat, nothing appeared to have changed. Surfaces were still coated in a light film of dust, and the stack of mail remained unopened. And what had also not changed in the last twenty four hours was Harry, again at a loss as to where to start.

  So he started in the bedroom. He looked amongst the bedding, under the pillows, in the pillows, and under the mattress. He searched pockets of clothing, jewellery boxes, drawers and make-up bags. The bathroom cabinet revealed little more than another extensive array of cosmetics, toiletries and cleaning products. On the spur-of-the-moment, he even checked inside the toilet cistern, for no other reason than he’d seen it done in a film. In the kitchen, the search continued: tea caddy, coffee jar, tops of wall cupboards, even the freezer compartment got checked, which didn’t reveal much, other than a few vegetarian sausages. Sofa seat cushions were lifted, CD rack given a close inspection, out-of-date television magazine scrutinized.

  The effort of the search, and the stuffiness of the room, had Harry breaking out into a sweat. He took off his jacket, and draped it on the back of the chair in front of the small table. Hands on hips, he scanned the table top: books, writing materials and computer. He studied the blank screen of the computer, wondering if it was likely to be of any help. He wondered how you switched it on. Should he phone Izzy and ask her? He had her business card in his pocket. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, but instead of phoning Izzy, he skimmed through recently made phone calls, stopping at Mollie’s mobile number, to then press the green button.

  Since Harry’s search had begun, he’d texted and called Mollie’s mobile phone on a number of occasions, but received no response to either. He waited. The dialling tone started. Something wasn’t right. The dialling tone seemed excessively loud. It almost seemed as though the ringing was in the same room as he was.

  He looked around, trying to focus, to narrow down from where it came. He moved towards the sofa. He’d already checked under and behind cushions. The sound seemed to be coming from behind the sofa itself. Harry pulled it forward, away from the wall. On the floor behind the sofa was a bag. A medium sized black leather bag with a drawstring top. A ladies bag. Harry could imagine Mollie placing it on the back edge of the sofa, as a handy spot to leave it. It must have fallen down the gap between the sofa and the wall.

  He picked it up, untied the drawstring, and then reached inside to pull out a ringing mobile phone. He looked at the caller display, and saw his own number, just before the phone stopped ringing and went to voicemail. Unlike Harry’s less-than-new mobile phone, this one was a new touch-screen type. And like the computer, he had absolutely no idea how it worked.

  Back at the table, Harry searched the remainder of the bag’s contents. He pulled out a small leather wallet, inside which were credit and debit cards, shop store loyalty cards, a library card, some loose change, and twenty five pounds in notes. In a side pocket of the bag, were a handful of bank statements, untidily jammed in. He also found a set of car keys. Another handful brought out an A5 sized diary, and a foil strip of what Harry assumed was birth control pills. Replacing the foil strip, he turned his attention to the diary, opening it up at today’s date, to then start flicking back through the pages, going back almost two weeks before he found an item. It consisted of a few lines of neatly written text, explaining Mollie’s feelings on that particular day.

  Skipping through the page-a-day diary, it became apparent Mollie only used the diary to record her feelings, and not for day-to-day appointments. The entries were few, and random. Days would pass without an entry, and then there would be a spell of consecutive entries. Sometimes they consisted of a few lines, sometimes a whole page. The writing varied in its neatness and clarity, often cryptic. Names were rarely used: “He did this”, “he did that”. Someone called “Maggie”, who appeared to have a “drink problem”, and with whom Mollie often argued, was also occasionally mentioned.

  Harry noted the time of day was written in the margins. The longer, more rambling entries were often late at night, suggesting to Harry that Mollie may have been under the influence of something at the time. As he read further, it became apparent the girl’s life was not a happy one. In fact, for one so young, it appeared tragic.

  Harry was sitting at the table - the diary now closed - having difficulty in comprehending what he’d just read. The cryptic style of writing did not make the understanding of the entries any easier, but even if he’d managed to grasp only a bit of what Mollie had been through - endured - then the enormity of what he’d just read was deeply disturbing.

  Whatever Harry’s thoughts and concerns might have been, they immediately disappeared when he heard the frenetic rattle of keys in the door to the flat.

  He leapt to his feet, scooping up the bag, the diary, and then his coat which he draped over his arm, hiding both bag and diary; his legs slightly splayed and his body tensed, in anticipation of what is about to burst through the door. The time period between the violent rattling of the keys in the lock, to the aggressive slamming shut of the door, suggested to Harry his unexpected visitor knew he was there, and was looking for confrontation; and he was prepared to wager good money on the old lady on the ground-floor being the snitch.

  The door to the lounge was flung open, and a woman strode in, stopping abruptly when she almost collided with Harry. She stepped back, then looked Harry directly in the eye. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ she said.

  So much for social niceties thought Harry, as he stared back at her. He saw a tall slim woman of about five foot ten, dark haired, mid forties. She was wearing a tight mini-dress that accentuated her long legs and cleavage, with a short leather jacket over the top, and a large number of gold bangles on each arm, with gold dangling earrings to match.

 
What he also saw, was a woman who was very angry.

  He watched as she leaned across to place a brown envelope on the stack of mail - well, that’s one question answered - seeming a little unsteady as she did so, having to rest her fingertips on the table edge to compose herself.

  ‘Are you the prick who’s turned my daughter against me?’ she asked, jabbing a finger in Harry’s direction. ‘Are you the new boyfriend?’

  Ah, thought Harry, Mollie’s mother. He should have realised. The familiarity of the voice was, of course, the voice he’d heard only yesterday, on Mollie’s answering machine. Harry could see that Mollie’s dark and sultry looks had been inherited from her mother. ‘Well? Talk to me for fuck’s sake. Don’t just stand there fuckin’ staring at me. Where - is - my - fuckin’ - daughter?’ she screamed at Harry, spittle flying, fists clenched. The woman’s accent was south of London, broad cockney, and Harry was sure there was a lilt of Irish in there. He was also sure there was a slight slurring in her speech.

  Maggie.

  She took a step forward; clenched fists, raised. She hesitated, wanting to strike out and vent her anger.

  Harry stood his ground, waiting for the blow, no intention of striking back, no intention other than to fend off the blows. No intention of hitting a woman.

  The blows never came.

  ‘Tell me, please!’ she said, as she slumped onto the chair Harry had just vacated.

  He thought quickly. What to tell this woman? If he said he was the boyfriend, then the conversation was only going to get worse; there would be demanding questions to which he had no answers. If he said he wasn’t the boyfriend, she would probably want to know what he was doing there in her daughter’s flat. He couldn’t tell this woman the real reason, because she wasn’t aware of the argument her husband had had with their daughter, and that he’d given her “a bit-of- a-slap”. As much as Harry despised men who beat up women, he wasn’t prepared to get any deeper into their family issues than he already was.

  ‘It’s Maggie, isn’t it?’ said Harry. Mollie’s mother nodded, brusquely wiping away her tears, and smearing mascara across her face, not thinking to question how Harry knew her name. ‘Maggie, I don’t know where your daughter is, and that’s the honest truth.’ Harry didn’t know what else to say to the woman. He’d always found it difficult when it came to handling emotional situations. He tentatively touched her shoulder, in what he hoped was a gesture of reassurance, before walking out of the flat, and quietly closing the door on the sobs of grief that were coming from within. On the stairwell landing, he leaned his back up against the wall, head tilted back, to let out a long sigh. He found himself thinking he could kill for a cigarette.

  CHAPTER 16

  The noise from the blast of the shotgun, reverberated off the bank’s walls and high Victorian ceiling, intermingling with the screams of human voices.

  The smell of gunpowder was strong in Steve’s nose, and - along with the painful ringing in his ears - he could feel an acrid taste at the back of his throat. The barrel of the shotgun was hot to the touch as he gripped it tightly, struggling to wrest it from the hands of the masked bank robber.

  As they fought, Steve looked into the eyes of the masked man; they were wide and white with fear and with anger. For a moment, for a fraction of a second, Steve thought he saw - or sensed - familiarity.

  The man was tall and powerfully built, and Steve could feel his own strength failing; he watched the barrel of the shotgun swinging upwards and towards him.

  The gun went off for a second time. Again the roar of the blast bounced off the walls, and again the screams of the bank’s customers and staff rang out. Steve felt a blast of hot air blow past his face, just before the masked gunman gave a final jerk on the now empty shotgun, pulling Steve off balance and towards him, whipping his head forward as he did so, to then head-butt Steve across the bridge of his nose. Steve felt his legs give way, collapsing to the floor as the gunman fled. The last thing Steve remembered as blackness crept over him, was the pretty blonde cashier cradling his head, telling him he was a hero; his hero.

  The next thing Steve was aware of was that he was in a bed - what seemed to be a hospital bed - and that the bed was surrounded by people. Photographs were being taken, cameras were flashing. The Mayor of London was also there, and he was saying something to Steve, something about how proud the people of London were of his courage and actions, that he was an upstanding citizen. The Mayor wanted to give him an award for bravery. But something didn’t seem right. The Mayor was Ken Livingstone. A number of years and successive Mayors’ had passed since Ken Livingstone was Mayor, hadn’t they? Was he suffering from concussion? Had he travelled back in time? His confused thoughts were then interrupted by the hospital fire alarm going off. Everyone in the room looked at each other, all thinking the same thing. Was it a drill? The alarm continued. Suddenly everyone was panicking and screaming, and running around in circles, pulling at their hair. All except the Mayor of London, who was now Boris Johnson, and who was smiling benignly down at Steve as the alarm continued to ring, getting louder and louder.

  The shrill beep of the early morning alarm clock, wrenched Steve from his slumbers and back to reality.

  Naked, and with eyes and head heavy from sleep, he stumbled through to his en-suite bathroom and into a hot Power Shower, to emerge ten minutes later, considerably more awake than when he’d gone in. Teeth cleaned and freshly shaven, he applied some moisturiser to his face. He believed in looking after himself. The body is a temple, etc. He studied his reflection. His boyish looks and stylishly cut dark hair belied his thirty eight years of age. His soft features made him almost pretty. He turned heads, both male and female. What he considered his only flaw was the bump on the bridge of his nose where it had been broken - twice, and by the same person. This train of thought then led him back to his dream. Weird, he thought.

  Ablutions finished, he picked up a small cloth and then wiped around the basin and taps, leaving them as clean as when he’d started. Bare foot and naked, he headed back into the bedroom, enjoying the feel of the thick, lush carpet under his feet. He picked up a television remote control, and a forty six inch wall mounted TV screen sprang into life, showing the early morning BBC news. An adjacent door to the bathroom led him into a large walk-in wardrobe, where double rails on either side of the room showed rows of suits, shirts, trousers and jackets. From a drawer of underwear - all the same brand and colour of black - he took out and then put on, a pair of boxers and socks, followed by a starched and pressed cornflower blue shirt, which he first removed from the dry cleaner’s protective cover.

  Steve loved his three storey Georgian terraced house in affluent Hampstead. As he dressed, he reflected on how he’d come to acquire it: he’d bought the repossessed four-bedroomed property at auction, and for a fraction of its market value. Now fully renovated, it was worth a small fortune. The decision to use half of the adjacent double bedroom to create an en-suite bathroom and walk-in wardrobe was, in his humble opinion, inspired. While the remaining adjacent bedroom was now a large single - and presently his home gymnasium - it was still a four-bedroomed house, its value not just holding, but increasing. The two remaining bedrooms were kept as guest rooms for visiting friends - the few that he had.

  He smiled at his own foresight and astute business acumen, as he chose a black, narrow pinstriped, three piece suit, a highly polished pair of heavy black brogues, and a primrose yellow silk tie, to finish off his ensemble.

  Downstairs he collected a copy of the Financial Times from his front door letter box, strolled into the kitchen - where the television was already on and showing the BBC News - and switched on his Combi coffee machine, opting for an espresso.

  Breakfast was a bowl of natural bran flakes, to which he added - because it looked and tasted suspiciously like cardboard without - a handful of dried fruit and freshly sliced banana, before liberally dousing it with skimmed milk.

  As he ate his breakfast and sipped his coffee, he skim
med through his newspaper, checking the stocks and shares while half listening to the television news, until his ears pricked with interest at the name of a senior Metropolitan police officer who was being interviewed, vehemently denying allegations of fraud and corruption within the Metropolitan Police Force. A snort of derision escaped Steve’s lips.

  Breakfast over, he then placed his newspaper into his briefcase, along with his iPad and mobile phone. Before leaving for work, he checked the security locks on all ground floor windows and rear door, checked the CCTV was on, and then set the sophisticated alarm system. Closing his front gate, he cast a glance at his top-of-the-range Mercedes-Benz sports car, parked roadside, before striding out for the fifteen minute walk towards the Finchley Road train station.

  Armed with a double Latte from the deli next door to the train station, Steve caught the six thirty five for a ten minute journey to Willesden Green. As the train gently rattled along, he sipped his coffee, and pondered what to do over his upcoming long weekend: go to the West End and see a show, or maybe catch a movie? Not quite the same on your own, though, he thought. Maybe he would call into his local pub, see who was about, watch some football on the big screen TV, though pubs weren’t really Steve’s ‘thing’, and he wasn’t much of a drinker, either. Half a lager shandy would usually last him most of the night, and he certainly wasn’t into football; he’d rather watch golf or tennis, neither of which was on that weekend. He didn’t even have the option of working; overtime had been reduced to the bare minimum due to budget cuts, and because he’d taken very little leave-time, he was also having to take Monday off to use some of it up. ‘Use it or lose it’ was the department’s policy. He would probably end up doing what he did most weekends: gardening, housework, and watching DVDs with a take-away meal, he thought, glumly.