by Angela Dyson
By ten o’clock, we had made three further stops, another house in New Malden and two in Worcester Park. I dutifully made a note of each of the addresses and would give them to Laura so that her firm of solicitors could do whatever they thought best. Contact the police probably.
Laura. My thoughts kept returning to her. She hadn’t phoned me back. And I thought I knew why. I didn’t think she had a flat battery or had lost her mobile. My guess was that at some level she knew (and possibly from the tone of my voice in my message) that the news I had about Simon wouldn’t be good and she just didn’t want to hear it, or at least not yet. The thought depressed me and I felt tired. What was the point of going on with following Gary?
We were now somewhere in the backstreets of Surbiton in a rundown semi-industrial area. I’d make this the last one I decided. There were few houses but we were just passing a couple of shops: a bookies, a launderette and an auto repair shop when Gary stopped outside a small boarded up commercial unit, which I could see from the signage, had once sold parts for swimming pools. There were hardly any cars about, so I pulled up outside a 24-hour newsagent opposite, made sure that my doors were locked and watched as Gary, veering away from what once had been the main entrance, cut across a cracked concrete skirting, and took a left around the back of the building.
Rather bored with the routine by now, I sat fiddling with the radio channels trying to find something to lift my mood, when I thought I heard a shout. I flicked off the radio, wound down the window a little, and listened intently. Shouts were coming from the direction of the abandoned unit and then two men, one of whom was Gary, appeared at the front of the building. I wound down the window some more.
“You’re not taking any more money from us,” yelled the other guy, a tall, lean white man with long dreadlocks tied back from his face in a red and white bandana.
Gary lowered his head, his stocky body tense and ready to spring. “I want my fucking money,” he snarled.
Dreadlocks took a step towards him holding up both hands in a gesture of protestation. “You put the rent up two weeks ago. We can’t afford any more.”
Gary laughed; an ugly sound that seemed to come from the back of his throat. “Well you’ll just have to get it then won’t cha?” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. “You got a couple of girls in there ain’t you? Get them busy and bring some dosh in.”
“You bastard,” shouted Dreadlocks and then lunged at him with a clumsy flailing blow.
Gary sidestepped the swing and then came in with a violent punch to the stomach. I could see the pain explode in Dreadlock’s body as he doubled up and then fell to the ground.
As Gary kicked him in the head I could hear the other man croak in ragged breaths, “We just don’t have it.”
I was half out of the car when I became aware of voices behind me and turned to see that two Asian men had come out of the newsagents and were looking on dispassionately at the proceedings.
“Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” I asked.
“No no,” said the elder of the two men. “These things happen all the time. You go home now and forget all about it.”
But I couldn’t do that. I’d make the call. I was reaching for my bag when Gary, having apparently decided that he’d made his point, walked towards his motorbike. I heard him call back over his shoulder in that weirdly conversational tone I recognised. “I’ll be back for it next week. Make sure I get it.” Then he sped off down the street, the blast of his exhaust booming into the night.
This time I didn’t follow him. I was out of the car and jogging across the street.
“Are you all right?” I called to Dreadlocks who had now got to his feet and was staring in the direction of the disappearing motorbike.
“What? Yeah… I’m OK…” He turned and focused on me. His accent was Irish and I placed him somewhere in his mid-thirties.
“But you’re not,” I said. “You’re bleeding.”
“It probably looks worse than it is.” He wiped at the blood that was running down the left-hand side of his face.
“I doubt that,” I replied. “You probably should get checked out by a doctor. I could drive you to hospital if you like?”
He had the hollow-cheeked face of someone who had been ill or who does drugs and his dreadlocked hair appeared very dark against the pallor of his skin. I stood awkwardly unsure of what to do when two figures appeared from behind the building. A girl with short blonde hair wearing a huge striped jumper that reached nearly down to her knees rushed to his side.
“Oh God you’re hurt!” She pulled on his arm as the other, a much older woman in a long skirt with a thick coat buttoned up to her neck, looked warily about her.
“Are you sure he’s gone Dan?” He nodded and she grunted. Then, catching sight of me, she asked sharply, “Who’s she?”
I was just going to try and explain myself when Dan cut in with, “She’s not with that bag of shite Gary if that’s what you mean Maggie.”
He grinned at me and although his teeth were heavily stained the smile was warm. “She just stopped to help me.”
“You did?” asked the younger girl.
“Well come along in then all of you,” ordered Maggie and to Dan. “I want to get a good look at you in the light.”
I hesitated a minute and then followed them, stumbling through some brambles, the thorns pulling at my jeans, around to the rear of the unit. A door with peeling paintwork and a double-glazed panel was ajar and we went through it into a large, shabby dimly lit room where office desks had been pushed together to make one big makeshift table and upon which were piles of neatly folded clothing and an odd assortment of household items.
Along two of the walls, palettes, the kind that builders use for stacking bricks on, were laid out on the floor with sleeping bags and old blankets upon them.
“I’m gasping for a cup of tea Sheena.” Dan looked at the girl in the striped jumper. “Make us one eh?”
Sheena picked up an old tin kettle from the table and put it on to one of those canister gas cylinders that people take on camping trips.
Dan explained, “We don’t have electricity so we’ve got this heater and the lanterns run on batteries.”
“But at least we have water,” said Sheena to me. “My last place didn’t and it was a nightmare.”
“We’ve all been in worse,” agreed Maggie. She crossed to a small metal sink and ran water into a plastic bowl. “Now let’s get you cleaned up Dan.”
He sat down on the edge of the table and indicated that I should take the only seat, one of those old office chairs with caster wheels and whose seat was ripped and shredded. I did so. As Maggie dabbed carefully at his face he said, “That was good of you to stop for me. There are not many that would. What’s your name?”
“Clarry.”
“Well good to meet you Clarry. And these ladies, as you will by now have gathered are the lovely Sheena…” He made a comic half bow to her as she poured hot water into four mugs and then added milk from a carton that was open on the table. Without electricity there wouldn’t be a fridge I realised.
“And herself here,” Dan gestured to Maggie, “Is our esteemed Lady Margaret The Venerable, Margaret The Wise.”
“Your head has taken a hell of a knock if you think that,” grumbled the older woman but I thought that her ministrations with the cloth seemed gentler.
We drank our tea and sat in silence for a while. They didn’t appear to question my presence and seemed completely devoid of curiosity. Perhaps they were used to people just appearing without explanation?
“How long have you lived here?” I asked shifting in my chair so that the casters spun me several inches away from the table. Pedalling myself back I laughed, “I can see this could take some getting used to.”
“It does,” Dan said and then with an ironic curl to his lip
s added, “Ah but we live like kings. I’ve been here about three months now. When I first arrived there were two other lads but they’ve since moved on. And then Maggie came and then…” He turned to Sheena. “Is it nearly a month now since you came here darlin’?” He rested his elbows on the table and through the layers of old T-shirts he wore I could see the stark lines of his bones.
“We look out for each other,” said Sheena tugging at the frayed sleeves of her sweater in an oddly defenceless gesture. And something about that reminded me of Melanie.
“Well let’s hope we can stay together,” muttered Maggie and then to Dan, “The bleeding’s stopped but we could do with something to cover the wound. It’s not deep but you need to keep it clean. Are you feeling dizzy or anything?”
In answer Dan tried but failed to stifle a cough. “I’ll be alright.” He turned to me. “You can see what a team we are? That fecker Gary won’t break us up.” He coughed again and then again and I could hear the rattle of it on his chest.
As he took a sip of tea I asked, “Who was that guy?”
“He’s who we pay,” said Maggie flatly.
“Rent?” I pressed.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” She looked down into her mug as if the answers to all life’s questions might be there.
“How does it work then?” I pressed but she made no reply.
“It’s just how it is.” Sheena’s tone was matter of fact. “It’s always like this.”
I shook my head in incomprehension and looked again to Maggie, but something in her shuttered expression prevented me from pushing the point.
“When’s he coming back?” Sheena asked in a subdued voice.
Dan sighed, “He said next week.”
“When next week?” Maggie asked.
“He didn’t say. But let’s not worry about it now.”
And that effectively brought the conversation to a full stop. There was so much more I wanted to ask, but I just couldn’t bring myself to. It seemed intrusive. Bullish.
They had so little – nothing really at all in the way of belongings. It struck me that might I, like much of society, be secretly afraid not just of poverty but of The Poor? And of what they could do if they ever grew tired of being the underdogs? The thought made me feel ashamed. It was time I left.
“I should get going,” I said getting to my feet. “Thanks for the tea.” Maggie twisting the coat button at her throat let her fingers halt for a moment and looked at me her gaze opaque. I met her eyes and then looked away.
“And I’m glad you’re OK Dan,” I said and meant it.
As he stood up I could see in spite of the lines of exhaustion on his face that he must have been really quite an attractive guy before illness or drugs and hard knocks had taken their toll. I wondered just what those knocks had been.
“I’ll see you out then,” he said and as he ushered me to the door said to the others, “Don’t worry ladies I’ll be back and then I’ll bolt us all in safe for the night.”
We walked in silence out into the street and Dan proffered his hand.
“Good to have met you Clarry. And you know where we are if you ever want a late night cup of tea.”
I smiled and shook his hand. “I do. Good night and take care of you, Sheena, and Maggie.”
He made another of his comic little bows as I took my leave.
That night as I fell asleep I could still hear the sound of his coughing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’d considered asking someone to come along with me to the party at The Vine. The idea of walking in there alone made me nervous, but if I asked Steph or any of my other friends to come with me, my chances of getting anything worth knowing out of Chris might be reduced. Going solo it would have to be.
It was after seven thirty when I left the house and this turned out to be a good thing as cutting it fine left me less time to be anxious. I pulled up around the corner from The Vine, entered the restaurant, and found myself in the middle of a real family affair. Greek people, Greek music, and Greek conversation, everyone laughing and gesticulating and generally having a great time.
Some of the restaurant tables had been pushed together in the centre of the room and covered with snowy white lace cloths. A feast, obviously prepared in the restaurant kitchen, had been arranged on an assortment of blue and white china. But in and amongst these festive platters were more homely dishes that I guessed had been brought by some of the guests: earthenware bowls heaped with olives, pimentos, and green beans flecked with herbs, a wicker trug piled with fresh fruit offerings; figs, berries, and droops of purple grapes that bloomed like the misted gems of a Bulgari necklace.
There were also half a dozen long-necked narrow bottles in straw baskets with handmade labels that contained a deep blackcurrant coloured wine, which I suspected would leave a livid purple stain on the lips of anyone brave enough to drink it.
I watched amused as a clutch of elderly ladies, upholstered in their traditional black, paid special attention to a platter of sticky honey pastries. Although I couldn’t understand their language, from their avid and yet conspiratorial manner, I suspected them of an absorbing interest in their own and each other’s ailments. As their liver-spotted hands brushed distractedly at the slivers of almonds and threads of marzipan that had spilt upon their corseted bosoms, I assumed they were comparing case notes on everything from bunions to sciatica. And these ladies could certainly eat. They managed simultaneously to graze, keep up a steady stream of conversation, and maintain a watchful eye on a band of rollicking old men decked out in their Sunday best that were grouped around a backgammon table.
There the low hum of masculine conversation was punctuated at intervals with encouraging exclamations as one of their number executed a bit of fancy dice work. Some of the men fidgeted unceasingly with the little loops of amber or coloured worry beads, but all their faces were animated. Somehow, they still, despite their advanced years, appeared to be full of life and vigour and I wondered if they were living proof of the well-publicised virtues of the Mediterranean diet, another reason to sample the delights of the buffet table.
Children darted to and fro getting under foot. With overexcited yelps they chased each other about the room, pinching food from plates, hiding under tables, and crawling around ankles. They were all splendidly dressed; little boys in frilly shirts and the girls in frothy bridesmaid-type frocks in pink and apricot. Occasionally, a young mother would softly call a restraining Yani or Eleni to calm their boisterous spirits and protect their clothes from being ripped or smeared with ice cream.
I was also interested to note that except for the children, there was a distinct segregation between the sexes. The younger women were seated comfortably together in a harmonious huddle, smiling and nodding and appearing, in spite of some very up-to-date outfits, somehow reminiscent of an earlier age. There was nothing unworldly about their husbands however. They loped about, dark eyed and watchful. They eyed me with obvious interest but kept their distance. Chris was nowhere to be seen. And I, who had absolutely no business being here at all, felt very much alone.
Soon I became conscious that it wasn’t only some of the predatory husbands that were checking me out; I was now the subject of much interest to the whole room. This was not comfortable. I wandered over to the table and helped myself to an olive. Then I had another. Briefly I considered dipping into some taramasalata, but didn’t want to be smiling through a mouthful of pink glob if Chris approached me unawares.
I was just thinking about leaving when there was a shuffling in my direction and I recognised the restaurant owner heading towards me with a glass of white wine in both hands.
“Good evening, you are very welcome here Miss?”
“Pennhaligan. Clarry Pennhaligan.” At last, there was somebody to speak to.
He smiled and offered me the glass of wine, which I accepted grat
efully.
“I am Thanos Tsoumanis,” he said and held out his hand. I shook it and there was then an awkward pause.
“You were here earlier this week I believe,” he said eventually. “As you see tonight we are celebrating. We Greeks do not observe our actual birthdays once we have grown out of childhood, rather we honour the Saint after whom we have been named. Each Saint has a name day and so there will be many who share festivities tonight.”
I nodded politely and he continued with a hesitant smile as if fearful of losing my interest.
“It is a happy day for me. A man is always relieved to have reached the age of sixty. To have seen his sons and daughters settled and his grandchildren growing strong.”
He turned slightly and indicated a beautiful dark-haired boy of about seven who was careering about the room issuing great cowboy whoops whilst cracking a pretend whip.
“It certainly seems a family occasion,” I replied.
The clannish atmosphere was beginning to oppress me. Where the hell was Chris I thought? I determined to give him only another five minutes before making my get away. I flashed an appeasing smile at Thanos.
“I only hope that I’m not intruding?”
This time his smile seemed genuinely warm. “Not at all, a stranger is always welcome. We have a superstition in Greece that a stranger could be a God in disguise and therefore we extend our hospitality to a guest.”
I laughed appreciatively and made a mental note to tell Flan who would love that.
He explained, “You see we are a very close-knit community. Perhaps it is because we have left our native land that we cling so to our old traditions and to each other. It is very important to us to maintain our sense of being Greek,” he emphasised the word with pride and then shook his head. “But it is more difficult for our young people, they become integrated.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I wanted to know.
“In one way yes, it is. To do well in this country, or indeed anywhere, it is necessary to adapt and be accepted, but…” here his voice dropped and for a moment he sounded much older than his sixty years, “It can also mean the loosening of our cultural ties and for old men like me that is sad.”