Angel Hunt

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Utter bollocks,’ she said nastily. Fair enough, I can take the honest cut and thrust of intellectual debate.

  ‘It’s never okay to wear fake fur; it simply encourages aspirations to the real thing and creates a class division of real and fake. And some fakes are no better than wild species. Have you seen any cats in north Germany recently? Do you know how much a cat pelt is worth in some parts of Europe?’

  I hadn’t and I didn’t And I didn’t give it a moment’s real consideration. Honest, Springsteen.

  ‘And even if they really are fakes – synthetic fur –’ she was on a roll now ‘– it’s made from petrochemicals, and they’re non-biodegradable and therefore damaging to the environment.’

  Hell’s teeth, they had you all ways.

  ‘And don’t give me any crap about hunting and fur-trading helping to preserve the primitive economies and lifestyles of Eskimos and Bantu bloody tribesmen or whatever.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t,’ I said, but she didn’t hear me.

  ‘You create a cash market for polar bear fur and the Eskimo spends it on booze. You offer cash for leopard skins and the Czechs sell more rifles in Africa.’

  I held up my hands in surrender.

  ‘I’m convinced, I’m convinced. I’m bowled over by the logic and impressed with the religious zeal.’

  She blinked at that; something she did so rarely that it was noticeable. What had I said?

  ‘I don’t apologise,’ she said moodily. ‘And okay, I get carried away, like today when the pigs wade in and start throwing their weight about.’

  Rats had rights, but pigs didn’t, it seemed, but I kept that to myself.

  ‘But, don’t you see, if it wasn’t for women passively accepting fur as fashion status, there wouldn’t be a problem. It’s up to women to change attitudes, and if our protest makes one woman think, then it’s a victory. We’ve got to do it, all of us. Women, that is. It’s a women’s issue, not an animals issue.’

  ‘And that’s not the heavy stuff?’ I prompted.

  ‘Oh no, I’ve pulled back from that. That can take over your life.’

  ‘Stuff like breaking into research laboratories?’

  This time, I hid my face in my glass.

  ‘How …?’ She drew back her hands from the table and put them on her lap. The body linguists would have had a field day. ‘How did you know I’d been put on probation?’

  At last, the 64,000-dollar question; but she stayed cool enough. ‘I asked a policeman. Sorry, I shouldn’t be flip. A policeman told me – in passing.’

  ‘In passing what? Have you told them where I live?’

  ‘Have they raided the house yet? Have they sent in the SWAT teams?’ What on earth had she done that was so terrible? She hadn’t thought twice about trying to mace the police sergeant earlier. ‘Whatever they want you for, they won’t get you through me. What are you, anyway? The mastermind behind the Surrey Red Brigade?’

  That got to her. She didn’t like being reminded of her nice, safe, middle-class upbringing. She mumbled something into her beer, the last few drops of it. It was almost worth getting her another to see if she could stand up afterwards.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sussex. I said I was from Sussex originally. Not Surrey.’

  ‘Close enough,’ I smiled. ‘Look, Lucy, I don’t think the police have got you on their Ten Most Wanted list. As far as I can see, your name cropped up simply as an explanation for why Billy Tuckett was trying to get into the house in Dwyer Street.’

  ‘Poor Billy,’ was all she said.

  ‘Poor Billy right enough,’ I said, coming on strongly. ‘Maybe it was poor, frightened Billy. Something had scared him enough to make him go running across rooftops in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t high and he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t delivering chocolates to his lady-love. I think he was scared shitless to be up there.’

  Lucy’s eyes widened and she pointed a finger at her own chest.

  ‘But it’s nothing to do with me. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Billy thought you were. Maybe he thought he could hide there with you.’

  ‘Hide from what?’

  ‘Action Against Animal Abuse.’

  She let her mouth fall open.

  ‘You heard,’ I pressed. ‘They’d been raiding the school at the end of Dwyer Street.’

  ‘The kiddies’ zoo,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Except it was closed for Christmas and the animals had gone on their holidays.’

  ‘A soft target.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It would have been classed as a soft target. You hit places like that: small schools, charities, private houses and private institutions that can’t afford to either repair the damage or introduce security precautions.’

  ‘Nice logic. Make friends; influence people.’

  ‘Do you know how many animals are used, quite unnecessarily, in school biology classes? Have you ever –?’

  I shook my head and regretted not slipping a large vodka into my alcohol-free beer.

  ‘Okay, okay, now I’m giving the sermon. I’m not apologising.’

  ‘Why break the habits of a lifetime?’

  ‘If only you knew how much of my life I did spend saying sorry.’

  I kept a straight face somehow. It wasn’t her fault; she was sincere enough. It was just that people saying things like that reminded me of one of my all-time favourite cartoons, where Dr Watson is saying to Sherlock Holmes: ‘But if you saw the conditions these Moriartys had to live in, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge.’

  She shivered, pulling herself together. ‘I’ve got to go. I have to pick up Cleo from the crèche.’

  ‘The inquest on Billy is tomorrow,’ I tried.

  ‘So? It was nothing to do with me.’ Her eyes were back to their natural shade of flint. ‘Just what has it got to do with you?’

  It was my turn to shrug. ‘I was there when it happened. I happened to have met Billy once or twice before. That’s two coincidences too many for the police. They hassle me, I hassle you.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t tell anybody …’

  ‘I won’t unless it gets too uncomfortable not to.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘This is ridiculous. Billy alive wouldn’t hurt a soul. Now he’s causing grief when he’s dead.’

  ‘Not just to us.’

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘I was thinking of his parents.’

  ‘Them too,’ she said dismissively. I was going off her rapidly. ‘But what’s it going to cost me to stay out of it?’

  ‘A name, a suggestion. Some idea of who Billy might have been with on his zoo liberation raid. Something I can barter with, with the cops.’

  ‘There’s no other way?’

  ‘Fuck it, he’s dead!’ I said it too loudly and felt people looking at me. ‘This is serious.’ Quieter this time.

  ‘There was a guy called Geoffrey Bell,’ she said slowly. ‘Lived in Romford, where Billy came from. Billy was very taken with him. Under his spell, you might say. He was an animal activist.’

  ‘A member of Action Against …?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never got in that deep. That’s all I can think of. Look, I’m out of it and I want to stay out. You’ve got to believe me.’

  I didn’t, but I let it – and her – go. As she fought her way through the crowd to get to the door, I bet myself that there would be another house on the market in Highbury by the next night. And this time, she’d know not to ask anyone to store her furniture.

  A mild uproar at the other end of the bar told me without looking that Bunny, the Mother Christmasses and the rest of the band had arrived and had walked into the middle of the darts match.

  Kim fought her way through a dozen pairs of clutching hands to bring me another pint of somethin
g I hadn’t asked for but wouldn’t refuse. Seeing there were only two seats at the small table, she plumped down on my lap. Bunny and Martin wandered over with more drinks, but Dod never made it past the darts game. He was good and could win beer that way. Between the door and the bar, Trippy and the other two girls seemed to have disappeared, but nobody was offering to send search-parties. After all, the pub was crowded and it was nearly Christmas.

  ‘What happened to Chase?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t think,’ said Bunny innocently. ‘We specifically told him we’d meet in the Marlborough Head.’

  ‘But this is the Three Tuns,’ said Kim.

  ‘Really? I’ll be damned.’

  I reached around Kim to get at my beer. Very closely round her. Like I said, the pub was crowded.

  ‘I’m glad you guys made it,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’m feeling starved of intelligent conversation.’

  ‘Your off-the-street pick up disappeared, then?’ asked Kim, pretending to soothe my brow and being anything but soothing in the process.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Angel, I’d never thought of that technique,’ said Bunny with genuine admiration.

  ‘What technique?’

  ‘Just cruising down the street, see one you fancy and literally pick her off the sidewalk – wallop, in the back of the truck.’ He mimed the action. ‘Just like landing a salmon.’

  ‘He’s being serious, isn’t he?’ whispered Kim in my ear.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Oh God, what have I done?’

  It was around 6.00 when the party broke up in disarray. The shops were still open – it was more or less late night every night this time of year – I remember that. And I remember somebody saying that my trumpet and the coffee and tea I’d got as Christmas presents were all stashed in Dod’s van. Dod agreed with that, but couldn’t quite remember where he’d left the van.

  Martin said it was in the National Car Park across the road, about 20 yards from the front door of the pub, and Dod said ‘Oh, yeah,’ and reluctantly gave up his place in the darts game, slipping at least three five-pound notes and some coins into his pocket and not bothering to thank the guys he’d played.

  Trippy had already gone – to see a man about a dog, down Tottenham Court Road, he said – and Bunny had found the other two Mother Christmasses. They’d got changed in the Ladies and given their outfits to Kim, who was still wearing hers, as she’d borrowed them from Simon’s wardrobe.

  I asked her where she lived and she said Tower Hamlets, so I offered her a lift in the van. She said that was probably out of Dod’s way. As he lived in Bethnal Green, it was, but so was Hackney.

  Bunny, Martin and the other two girls decided to go for a meal in a Swedish restaurant Bunny said he knew in Lisson Grove, the Dead Zone between the Edgware Road and Lord’s Cricket Ground. I suspect Bunny probably meant that he once knew a Swedish waitress, but I let it pass. They managed to flag a taxi, and they piled in amid a lot of shouting and general drunken bonhomie. The cabbie’s expression told anyone interested that Christmas was probably not his favourite time of year.

  We found Dod’s van in the NCP and I explained to Kim that, as he had only one passenger seat, the two of us had better travel in the cold and bare, unheated back along with Dod’s drum kit.

  Kim said, but wait a minute, there was a pile of blankets in the back (which Dod used to cushion his full kit on long runs) and we could lay those out and maybe cuddle up for warmth.

  I said that was a brilliant idea, and by the time we were out of the car park and in the thick of the traffic, I was asking her what she was doing later. She said there couldn’t be a later as she was on duty with the Samaritans at 9.00, so it would have to be now.

  I remember thinking that there seemed to be one hell of a lot of buttons on the average Mother Christmas costume. But fortunately the traffic was heavy and it took ages to reach Bethnal Green.

  Dod dropped me in Hackney, two streets away from Stuart Street so I could call in the Chinese take-away on the way. I got the distinct impression that he wasn’t actually too keen on slowing down so I could get out, let alone stop. But he did. Anyone would have thought I’d lowered the resale value of the van or something.

  I had a Tsingtao beer by the neck while chatting to Esmonde (don’t ask), the proprietor of the Last Emperor, and picking my meal by numbers from the menu nailed to the counter and covered in drunk-proof plastic.

  Esmonde was a really interesting guy – I’ve said that even when sober. He was a movie nut, and the take-away had in its time been called the Yangtze Incident, the World of Suzy Wong (copyright difficulties) and Enter the Dragon (raided by the Drugs Squad). It was known, I’m ashamed to say, as Aladdin’s by the locals who patronised it.

  I picked out a selection, deciding on even numbers only because it seemed like a sensible thing to do at the time. To prove, yet again, that he was a good salesman as well as a good cook, Esmonde did me a special offer on a small bottle of rice wine, which he persuaded me I just had to try.

  Sometimes they see me coming. And what’s more, they telephone each other to say I’m on the way.

  I certainly felt that way as I staggered into Stuart Street and up to the steps of No 9.

  At first I thought they were muggers, but then there were only two of them and it was the middle of the street. Corners are the favourite spots, even at night – fewer windows and more places to run. They were also Indian or Pakistani, not black or white or a mixture. Not that, I’m sure, India or Pakistan couldn’t put a mugging team in the next Olympics if they wanted to, but it was unusual. The dead giveaway, though, was that they were both way beyond Juvenile Court status and they were both wearing suits.

  And they weren’t out to mug just anyone passing. Oh no; they were after me.

  They must have been waiting in a car, as neither wore an overcoat and both were suddenly there smack in front of me, blocking the pavement, tantalisingly close to home.

  Even in my befuddled state, I could see they meant trouble. It wouldn’t be a fair fight either; there’s no such thing, as far as I’m concerned. If just one of them had sent one of their grandmothers, and I could have come out of the sun, and if I could have had a silenced chainsaw, then maybe it would have been fair. But then, thinking about Mrs Cody at Zaria’s rest home, I still wouldn’t have put money on me.

  Zaria. That must be it. They were her brothers or cousins or similar, just trying to find out where she was. Like me. There was absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t be straight arrow and honest with them.

  ‘You Angel?’ said one, the older one, who wore a black pointy beard but no moustache.

  ‘I’m sorry, who?’

  ‘Angel,’ he repeated.

  ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’ I shook my head and edged closer to the steps of No 9.

  ‘It is. I’ve seen him here,’ said the other one, without taking his eyes off me.

  ‘Yes, I live here,’ I said, looking nervously from one to the other. ‘My name is Goodson, Flat One. I don’t quite know what this is all about, but I’m sure I’ve never seen either of you two gentlemen …’

  When in doubt, keep talking. But it wasn’t going to work.

  ‘Sunil wants to see you,’ said spiky beard.

  Sunil?

  ‘About some stolen property,’ said the other, who, I’d decided by this time, had shifty eyes. ‘Missing from his home.’ And dandruff.

  I had got my back almost round to the steps by this time, but I knew I’d never get my parka open and the front door key out unless I had an edge.

  ‘You’re coming with us. Now.’ And as he said it, Shifty-Eyes-With-Dandruff (and I’ll throw in bad breath) put out a hand for my arm.

  I had my trumpet case in my left hand and my Esmonde special take-away in a paper carrier and my coffee in a Higgins’ bag in my right. What the hell. I could always get another
horn out of hock, and Esmonde stayed open to 1.00 am.

  I smiled broadly at Pointy-Beard and yelled ‘Catch!’ as I threw the bags up in the air in front of his face. I do believe he almost tried to catch them, but I was too busy by then, swinging up the trumpet case and trying to use it as a battering-ram into Shifty-Eyes’ midriff, or private parts if I was lucky.

  I wasn’t. He grabbed the end of the case before it hit him and stepped backwards using my momentum to take me forward and off balance, then he shoved back. He was stronger than he looked, and I stumbled back into his partner. Both of us went down and rolled off the hard, wet pavement into the gutter, but it was me who cracked the back of his head en route and me who got a boot in the stomach that even my US Navy parka did little to cushion.

  I had the good sense to let go of the trumpet case and try and keep rolling out of range. Then my head hit something else and I realised it was one of Armstrong’s rear tyres. I had just time to think what a help he was being when another boot landed in my guts and I gasped for air. When I found some, it had a strange smell – of sweet and sour sauce – and it seemed to be very moist.

  If Esmonde ever asked me how I enjoyed the evening’s ‘specials,’ I could always say I’d found them warm and soft; comfortable to land on.

  I grabbed Shifty-Eyes’ foot as it landed again and hung on. Pointy-Beard was somewhere underneath me and was trying to roll me out from under Armstrong. We probably presented quite an obscene picture, and suddenly we seemed to have an audience.

  I heard the pounding of rapid footsteps and I knew straight away that it wasn’t a policeman (they wear rubber soles these days), and then somebody yelled, ‘Hey, you!’

  Actually, it could have been ‘See, you!’ – and I’ve even told people since that it was ‘See you, Jimmy’ – but then and there, lying flat on my back looking up at Shifty-Eyes and still holding his foot, all I really registered was that the ‘you’ came out as just ‘U.’ It was the war cry of the Scottish male in full flight.

  And I do mean flight.