Angel City

by Mike Ripley

  There was a well-worn track between the two lines of heaped junked cars but I took it slowly, not wanting the Transit to hit a pothole or burst a tyre and end up adding to the accumulated dead weight of scrap. The effect of our lights hitting jagged edges of metal that had once been smooth and lovingly polished family pride-and-joy was weird. The cars were piled five or six high and the top ones leaned over at crazy angles. Most had doors and wheels missing. They were stacked as if on special offer on the shelves of a gigantic supermarket.

  The avenue of wrecks ended to reveal waste ground sloping away in front of us and, to our left, a large windowless brick building with sliding doors big enough to admit a truck. They were firmly secured by three sets of hasps and padlocks on a scale that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Disney version of Jack and the Beanstalk.

  It was then that the floodlights came on and if I hadn’t been busy trying to crash my way into reverse gear, I would have strangled Tigger.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he yelled at me as the gear stick screeched and began to fight back. ‘Keep moving. You’ve just tripped the burglar lights, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all is it? Well, stroll bloody on. We’re leaving.’

  ‘They’re just to frighten off the kids, they’re not connected to an alarm or anything.’ He had a hand on my hand on the gear stick. In some countries that meant marriage.

  ‘And what about those, you airhead?’

  I wrenched my hand free and pointed to the two remote video cameras now clearly visible above the sliding doors. They were not the moving sort that follow you around in high security buildings, but fixed to brackets on the wall. Each had a glowing red light just above the lens.

  ‘Aw, come on, get real,’ drawled Tigger. ‘They’re not even pointing this way. Look, Bassotti’s got them all over his place. They cost £19.29 each, with batteries. They’re fakes, man. They’re just there for decoration, for fuck’s sake. Relax will yer? The lights go off after a minute. Trust me.’

  Trust me. Now those really should go down as classic Famous Last Words, along with ‘Don’t tell me how to change a fuse, woman.’

  I found first gear and the van leapfrogged forward out of the glare of the floodlights, and its own lights picked up a tower of rusting oil drums and more wrecks too far gone to be recognisable, with grass and weeds growing up between the skeletons of metal. We were bouncing now, over rough waste ground, the headlamp beams picking up tussocks of grass and small bushes. I swung the van in a slowing arc so I could turn and head back out. As we came round, the floodlights in the scrap yard went off and Tigger said: ‘Told you so.’

  I stopped the van but kept the engine running, as if that was what I’d intended to do all along.

  ‘This do you?’

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ he chirped and climbed out after unclamping his hands from the dashboard where he’d hung on as I’d bounced us around.

  I heard him open the rear doors and grunt as he hefted the first two bags. He was gone for about 30 seconds before he picked up the next. Over the sound of the engine I could only imagine I heard the occasional splash.

  To my left, another train rattled out of Liverpool Street with only the odd passenger slumped in silhouette against the lit windows. In front of me, beyond the yard, a block of flats showed lights at almost every window. Any one of them could have offered a view of what we were doing.

  Nobody was interested.

  We left the van almost exactly where we had picked it up and Tigger pocketed the keys. Back in Armstrong, he cut me my wages and did the same trick he did every night, producing a folded envelope already stamped to put his share in.

  ‘Where to? Lincoln’s Inn again?’ I asked.

  ‘Not tonight, driver. Tonight we’re going downmarket. Take me to the Strand.’

  I started the engine and shook my head.

  ‘You’re not dooring it are you?’

  ‘Variety is the spice of life,’ he chirped.

  ‘And the source of diseases,’ I said.

  Unlike Lincoln’s Inn, where some of the tent dwellers had been there so long they received Reader’s Digest mail shots, the area around the Strand and up into the Aldwych was strictly transient. You were ‘dooring’ if you found an unoccupied doorway in which to fit yourself and your cardboard box or sleeping bag. The students at the London School of Economics called it ‘their’ cardboard city, but what do they know? They tried to organise a protest when the streetcleaning wagons came round at 5.00 am to squirt the pavement and shop fronts with jets of icy water, but 5.00 am is a pretty unrealistic time for a student. And in any case, the doorway population had moved out. Some went into Covent Garden and risked a night sheltering up against St Paul’s church – the actors’ church, used mostly for showbiz memorial services where actors lie through their teeth about other, dead, actors. Not that the church is a problem; it’s a very nice church. It’s just that it has been adopted by the most aggressive set of winos in London, who regard any passing tourist as fair game for a bit of begging-with-menaces, and they didn’t like newcomers on their patch.

  Others would have cut up into Lincoln’s Inn Fields and tried to crash the settlement there, either the permanent sites around the park railings where they have to chain their tents down and they use bright orange survival bags strung over the railings as windbreaks, or the no-man’s-land in the middle around the folly, or pagoda, or whatever the hell it’s supposed to be. They would only have done that if really desperate, as the normal admission fee is a bottle. To defend their territory, the residents of the folly use old oranges, rescued from the backdoors of restaurants, tied in plastic carrier bags. They use them like demented gauchos throwing bolas, and they hurt like stink when they hit. Look on the bright side. They haven’t got guns. Yet.

  The third migratory route would have been across the Hungerford footbridge to take their chance among the concrete of the South Bank. From there they could look over the river and see the mother of all Parliaments working late into the night. The government said there were less than a thousand people living rough on the streets of London. They also said the recession was over, inflation was coming down, beef was safe to eat and we had a Caring Society.

  Whichever way the doorway people had gone, the exodus had not lasted long. Within a couple of months they were drifting back and cardboard boxes (especially from big electronic gear) were at a premium again.

  ‘I suppose you want me to stop at a postbox,’ I said.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, driver,’ he answered, putting his feet up on the glass partition behind my head. ‘I’ll have to be more careful. I’m getting set in my ways.’

  Then I felt him looking at me as he said: ‘Or maybe you’re just more observant than most.’

  I shrugged. ‘So what’s the big deal? You don’t want to carry a roll of notes with you if you’re going to be dooring it down the Strand, that stands to reason. So you post it to your Swiss bank account. None of my business.’

  ‘You’ve never wondered about it? Go on, I’ll say you have.’

  ‘The only thing I’ve wondered about you, Tigger, is why you have to irritate people so much. It’s not some breakaway Hare Krishna philosophy is it? Are you doing a degree in getting on people’s tits?’

  ‘Well, that’s a reaction of sorts, I suppose,’ he said cheerily. ‘Most people I’ve done driving jobs with have decked me by the second one, or gone all high and mighty about my personal life.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ I said drily.

  ‘Oh, Mr Angel,’ he camped it up, putting his hands on his heart, ‘I thought you didn’t care. Worse still, I thought you hadn’t noticed me.’

  ‘That would be difficult, Tigger, though I’m sure there are drugs around these days that could help.’

  ‘Why, Mr Cool, you can be so cutting. And you should be friends with Tigger, because Tigger will be famous one day
.’

  ‘Promise you won’t forget the little people, won’t you?’

  I stopped near a postbox and watched him in the mirror again. He thought about something then got out, leaving Armstrong’s door open so I couldn’t drive off, posted his wages envelope and scurried back in.

  ‘Home, James, to another night under the stars. And don’t look so disapproving, Mr Angel. I can tell you are, even from here.’

  ‘You’re mistaking disapproval for total disinterest,’ I said over my shoulder.

  ‘Aw, come off it.’

  He loomed in my mirror to take the drop-seat behind me.

  I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘We have a lot in common, you and me, Angel.’

  I wondered if this was a come-on and, if it was, how I could best hurt his feelings without losing the driving job.

  ‘Apart from a need for cash money and the oxygen in this cab, not a lot,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes we do. Brothers in arms, that’s what we are, bucking the system in our own different ways. Living life to the full.’

  ‘Well you might be, but given the state of my finances, I’m living life to the tenth or thereabouts.’

  ‘Stop moaning, you old tart! Admit it, if you were my age you’d be living the same life. We’re both committedly irresponsible.’

  ‘No we’re not. Well, I’m not,’ I argued.

  ‘Oh, my mistake,’ he trilled. ‘I’d forgotten about the house and two-point-four kids out in the suburbs, and the day job, and the mortgage, and this must be the company’s Ford Escort I’m riding in. Get real.’

  ‘What is this, Tigger? You going in for psychiatry at night school or something? Get a life, but not mine.’

  He laughed.

  ‘See, exactly my point. You’re a professional sidestepper, just like me, except you even sidestep admitting it to yourself.’

  ‘Was there a special sort of glue on that envelope you posted back there, or is it a full moon tonight?’

  ‘Cheap shot, Angel. I’ve thought about this, and to be really free, you can’t afford to be responsible for anyone or anything. The minute you start to give a shit about what you do or what people think of you, you’re no longer a free agent.’

  ‘Must be a rough life,’ I said.

  And a short one, as it turned out.

  The weekend at Stuart Street crawled by in a succession of futile arguments with Lisabeth and Fenella and only a minor piece of sabotage to the plans of Doogie and Miranda.

  Doogie’s move back to Scotland had been prompted by the offer of a job as top chef in a posh hotel-cum-leisure complex on the banks of some loch or other. The actual location was a historic Scottish family house, fortified against the natural elements, the English, the Scots, and the Scots who always fought for the English (like the Armstrongs). It had survived those four apocalyptic horsemen only to fall to the fifth: tourism.

  For Doogie, it was a plum job. It offered a limited working season, lots of under-chefs under him, and he could vote Scots Nationalist at the election without having to spoil his ballot paper as he did in Hackney.

  All I had done was point out to Miranda that it would be difficult for her to continue her career in local journalism up there owing (a) to the lack of newspapers, and (b) the illiteracy rate among Highland cattle. She had thought about this and, for a moment, seemed to be putting a brave face on things. Then I suggested – just suggested, mind – that there would always be lots of openings for staff in a new hotel-cum-leisure complex, such as waitresses, chambermaids, kitchen staff even. And you couldn’t have a more understanding boss than Doogie, could you?

  It was at this point she decided Doogie ought to stay in on Saturday night so they could have a ‘relationship assessment’. I don’t know how it went, and I didn’t like to pry, but Doogie didn’t speak to me for three days, and even then I don’t suppose you could call ‘Turn the fookin’ music down!’ yelled down the stairs, polite social conversation.

  By Sunday evening, Lisabeth and Fenella weren’t talking either. Well, certainly not to me and probably not to each other.

  They were still plotting a move to Glastonbury as a centre of ley lines and the Earth’s sacred and spiritual linear forces. Lisabeth had found a book in the local library that seemed to substantiate this theory by referring to Feng-shui, one of the ancient Chinese beliefs similar to the basic philosophical principle of Taoism, which regards the Earth as a living thing through which life-force flows on ‘dragon paths’. The Feng-shui practitioner would build his house or tomb along these flow lines to ensure the best vibes, just like an acupuncturist knew exactly which flow line to tap with his needles.

  I upset them first by reminding them that their last experiment with acupuncture had cost them a fortune in Elastoplasts. Then I pretended to understand what they were on about and conned them into wasting Saturday morning in the library looking through guide books trying to find pubs called the Green Dragon, which would be good pubs because they were bound to have been sited on ley lines.

  While they were out, I left a message near the communal wall-phone telling them to ring the number of the nearest Chinese take-away as their Feng-shui was ready and did they want noodles or plain rice?

  I even managed to give the mysterious Mr Goodson the hump, though I didn’t intend to.

  Mr Goodson keeps himself to himself, doesn’t drink, smoke or indulge in illegal substances and doesn’t play loud music. In all other respects, he’s a perfect housemate. We rarely see him during the week and never at weekends, so maybe I over-reacted when I saw him letting himself out of the front door as I emerged on the Sunday morning to collect my milk.

  It was still some ungodly hour, say about ten o’clock, and I hadn’t expected to meet anyone on the stairs, so I was wearing just a towel scooped up off the bathroom floor, and to be honest, was still half asleep. So when I yelled a cheerful, neighbourly greeting, it actually came out as: ‘Good son, Mr Morning.’

  He gurgled something from the back of his throat, nodded in my general direction and hurried out the door. He was wearing a knee-length duffel coat of the sort you only see these days on historical newsreels of Ban the Bomb marches – and you only see them when a Socialist politician or archbishop snuffs it. He was carrying a huge sports bag over his shoulder, and though it said CICA in big letters, it didn’t fool me into thinking he was off to do something athletic. Maybe he was doing a moonlight flit or just deserting the sinking ship like everybody else seemed to be.

  If he was, I wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed.

  Monday morning involved two big decisions. The first was whether to hide in the bathroom until our esteemed landlord Nassim Nassim had been and gone, thus avoiding paying the rent. Again.

  Given the mood of the rest of the house, any one of them was likely to grass me to Nassim, so I bit the bullet and clocked on with the dispatch company. By seven o’clock I was on Baker Street again, facing big decision two: whether to hang around Porter Street and use the McDonald’s or defect across the street to the Burger King, which had put out tables and benches to try to win back trade. As Tony, the Beast from the East, was already sprawled out on one of the benches, that made it easy; I would wait until he wasn’t looking, then nip into McDonald’s.

  Before I could, the radio squawked.

  ‘Oscar Seven, Oscar Seven. You out there?’

  I started Armstrong’s engine again before answering. ‘Oscar Seven. Am in West One, heavy traffic.’

  The only thing moving on Baker Street was a Vulture refuse truck, its great iron jaws at the back gobbling up the black plastic sacks as the bin men hurled them in with unfailing accuracy.

  ‘Special request for you, Oscar Seven. Cash customer specified black cab for two passengers, West One area, soon as you can.’

  It was too early in the day to tell if this was a wind-up or not
, but some of the guys on Dispatch can get really warped after a quiet night on the switchboard.

  ‘Pick up and destination?’

  ‘Seymour Street, outside Barclays Bank.’

  ‘And where to, Dispatch?’

  ‘Passenger’s name is O’Neil. Cash not account. ETA?’

  They never tell you the destination, in case you pick up a better fare – like an airport – en route, so you always feel a right wally having to ask the customer: ‘Where to?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ I said, knowing they’d say ten.

  I thought no more about it than that the fare might just pay for the diesel I’d used already that morning. I didn’t connect ‘O’Neil’ with anything and didn’t bother asking for more details, just blithely assumed that there wouldn’t be too many people hanging around outside a bank at that time of the morning.

  There weren’t. Just one. Tigger.

  He was hopping from foot to foot, more agitated than usual, and when he saw me coming he waved frantically.

  I slowed at the kerb and leaned over and pulled the window down.

  ‘Don’t fuck about, Tigger, I’m working.’

  ‘I know you are, I called you,’ he said breathlessly, opening the back door.

  I slid back the driver’s partition as he climbed in. His tracksuit top was soaking wet down the chest and he reeked badly of vomit. Before I could order him out or kill the engine, he waved a bunch of ten-pound notes at me.

  ‘Genuine, Angel, straight-up hire. Look, I’ve got the dosh, now drive.’

  ‘Where to, sir?’ I said, like the dispatch company had taught me.

  ‘Down here.’ He pointed to Seymour Place. ‘We’re picking somebody up. I’ll show you. Then Lincoln’s Inn. Look, I told you, I’ve got money.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ I asked, as if it was any of my business.

  ‘I’ve been to the bank. Hole-in-the-wall job. Cash available 24 hours. Now will you sodding well drive?’