Lee Raven, Boy Thief

by Zizou Corder

  I was still holding them out to her, my face turned away.

  She was staring at me, annoyed and slightly puzzled.

  ‘Don’t rub it in that I’m a half-blind speccie four-eyes,’ she said.

  I could feel that my face was completely tense.

  ‘Joe, just read the sell-by date!’

  So I pulled my arm back, and held the cardboard tube up to my eyes, and made one up.

  ‘July 2021,’ I said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘You can’t read, can you?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Yeah I can,’ I said.

  ‘Pringles were banned under the Junk Food Abolition Act of 2016, and not made again until the act was rescinded in 2035. The longest sell-by date allowed before 2016 was one year.’

  ‘So?’ I snapped.

  ‘We did it in history. You can’t read. Is it your eyes, Or can you really not read? Like, you’re not able to?’

  I turned and stared at her straight in the face.

  ‘None. Of. Your. Bliddy. Business,’ I said, as calmly as I could, but the calm was riding on fury and shame. I picked up the Pringles and a bottle of water, and walked carefully over to a banquette as far from her as I could get, and I sat there with my back to her.

  After about half an hour, she came and sat across the table from me. Her arms were full of ancient food, with their faded labels and dusty lids. She plonked them down between us.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘We need to eat,’ she said. ‘And preservatives were still legal then – so it will have lasted. I don’t know…’

  I shrugged.

  ‘A bit couldn’t harm us,’ she said.

  She picked up a bottle of mineral water and handed it to me. I didn’t take it, so she set it down in front of me and offered me an ancient bottle of bitter lemon. Then she got stuck into the cocktail olives and saltine crackers. There were even some tiny bars of chocolate. She scrabbled one open – it had a white powdery effect all over it.

  ‘Organic,’ pointed out Janaki. ‘Best leave it alone. It’ll be rotten. Look – Bacardi Breezer, wonder what that is.’ She twisted the top off, sniffed and took a sip.

  ‘Yuck! Sugar on legs!’ she yelled. ‘How could people drink that stuff?’

  The sugar she minded! It was booze, anyway.

  I hate booze. Don’t like seeing people make prats of themselves and turning into sniking graspoles, to be honest. OK, some just get the giggles, but an evil drunk is an evil thing to behold and I had beheld it too sniking often. This whole place was giving me the heebie-jeebies, anyway – it’s just like a temple to booze and fags. It must have been well illegal, booze and fags, in the 2020s. They were both banned then. I saw it on Discovery Channel: the Second Prohibition. Bring on the third, that’s what I say.

  ‘Don’t drink it,’ I said.

  ‘Wasn’t going to,’ she said, and then she said, ‘Listen, Joe…’ and I closed my face again, but she carried on.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began to say, but I was already snapping.

  ‘I don’t need your pity thank you very much,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sorry you can’t read,’ she said. ‘That’s none of my bliddy business, as you so rightly put it. I’m sorry I called you stupid, and I’m sorry I forced you to let on when you didn’t want to. That’s all.’

  Oh.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  Then she said she had to go to the loo.

  A minute or two later she was back.

  ‘The ceiling in the ladies had fallen in so I went to the gents,’ she said. ‘Look what I found.’ She was holding out a small round tin with a picture of a smooth-looking bloke on the front.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Hair dye!’ she said. ‘Well – kind of darkening oil. This was on the table by the basins. I thought you might like it, for disguise.’

  This girl was doing my head in. She kept behaving like we was friends, and as far as I knew we wasn’t. Not that we was enemies, but we was… rivals, for the same thing. She didn’t seem to have noticed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

  ‘When we go above ground. All the descriptions are about how fair you are. You could go dark. For when we go and get the book back.’

  There she went again. What was this ‘we’?

  I had to deal with it.

  ‘Umm – listen,’ I said. ‘What exactly do you think is going on here, Janaki?’

  ‘We’re going to find a way out, and go and get the book back,’ she said in a tone as if she were explaining to a halfwit.

  ‘We?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I have a right to look for it, after all, and you’ll be better off if you’re with me. If anyone asks you’re my Scottish cousin. You’re mixed race. Or maybe I am. Anyway, you’re with me, and you’re dark, therefore you couldn’t be Joe English. So – your brother – would he take the book to this Nigella Lurch? I assume he just wants the money…’

  Well, she was quick. Very quick. And the hair dye was a very good idea. And maybe the fact that at the end of the day she’d want to take the book back to Maggs, while I would want to keep it for my own self, was, for the moment, worth ignoring. For the moment, she could help me.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘So, seeing as you’re so clever, how do we get out?’

  ‘Follow the Way Out signs?’ she said. Pointing.

  If she was going to be that bliddy clever, and that irritating, I might have to change my mind about having her along. I gave her a sarcastic look.

  ‘But not till tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It’s night-time, remember? We’d best sleep.’

  ‘Best to go now – fewer people to notice us,’ I said, in a bid for independence.

  ‘Let’s sleep for a few hours at least, then get up while it’s still dark.’

  Her good sense was beginning to tire me out.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the torch and dye my hair.’

  ‘Don’t take the torch,’ she squeaked.

  I smiled, because she was afraid of something.

  ‘I’ll do it for you,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ I squeaked automatically. No one ever touches me usually.

  ‘I’ll do a better job,’ she said. ‘It’ll look better. Be safer.’

  She was right. But I didn’t want some girl’s fingers in my hair.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, and grabbed the tin and started shovelling the gel stuff on my head.

  She was laughing at me. ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘You’ll have one big dark splodge and your hair sticking straight up. Here…’

  And she grabbed the pot and started doing it herself.

  It felt weird. Made me think about my mother when she was nice, and that made me think about the Beano, and that made me think about the book, and that gave me a pang in my heart. God, Billy, I hope you’re being gentle with him, not banging him about. That book, with its brain and heart hidden away somewhere, that book which is so old and has been through so much, which is such a criking mystery… which talked to me – me! – and made itself into a Beano just for me even though it knew Cleopatra…

  I was aware that this mystery was too big for one kid to deal with. I knew that other people must know about it. Something that amazing doesn’t just turn up unannounced.

  That’s what I was afraid of. Did Nigella Lurch know what it was? I felt that she did. Why else offer all that money?

  But it was me he talked to! And I promised to help him.

  ‘Stop sighing so much,’ said Janaki. ‘You’re wobbling about.’

  My hair did, in the end, look a lot better than it would have if I’d done it. Even I could tell that.

  We kipped on the dusty velvet banquettes, her on one side of the room, me on the other. Our backs were curved and our legs stuck out. There was no choice of position. I didn’t think I was going to sleep at all but when she woke me at about four, I was sparko and m
ad. I flailed for a moment before realizing where I was and calming down.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she said. ‘It’s morning!’

  We rinsed off in the gents, one by one, and filled our pockets with ancient peanuts.

  The Way Out signs pointed along a corridor. There was no light except for my torch. The carpet was crimson and the walls shiny cream, that’s all I can tell you. There was a reception desk with an ashtray on it.

  After a while there was a double door with bars across it. We pushed them and it opened. More corridor. Another set of double doors. We pushed them and they opened. Some stairs up. Part of my mind was trying to work out where we would be, compared to ground level; but I didn’t know how deep Frith’s Illicit was, so I had nothing to go by. I felt we were coming up, but not that we were on the surface yet. Just a hunch.

  Another set of double doors with the push bars. We pushed them and they opened – a bit. But not all the way. Beyond them was a wall. We squeezed and there was no way through. All wall.

  I knocked on it. Hollow. This wasn’t even brick.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I asked Janaki.

  ‘Four twenty-two,’ she replied, checking on her phone.

  By the double door was an old-style fire extinguisher: red metal, heavy.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ I said, and I grabbed it, and I heaved it straight at the wall.

  With a mighty, loud and unnecessary crash the extinguisher flew though the wall. The hole looked like a big bullet shot, jagged and spare. A quarter the force would have made it: the wall was hardly more than plasterboard.

  I panted. My shoulders felt like I’d thrown my own arms through a wall – wrenched.

  Janaki was looking at me, laughing.

  ‘What?’ I said crossly.

  ‘No, it’s great,’ she said. ‘Very macho.’

  I couldn’t tell if she was laughing at me or not. Anyway, she’d stuck her head through the hole.

  ‘Storeroom!’ she said. ‘Looks like a deli.’

  Sure enough, it was a room full of Parmesan and salami and panforte – a nice Italian grocer’s. I started to drop the ancient peanuts for some better provisions, but Janaki was already heading through, looking for a way out.

  ‘Hold up,’ I said, grabbing a box of biscuits, but she was racing ahead and I followed her.

  There was a door; it led to a landing. To one side, a kitchen. To the other, stairs: windy, going up. Another landing, dark wood panelling, flower arrangement on a tall desk – and a front door.

  To our left we glimpsed a restaurant through a doorway, white-clothed tables laid last night for today’s lunch; a coat-rack, a book for signing in. Some kind of club. Janaki struggled with the bolts on the door; I did something to the locks which I didn’t want her to know I knew how to do.

  In a moment we were out in the fresh air, gasping. Soho, quarter to five in the morning, a light rain, rumble of garbage trucks. I was back where I’d started, on Greek Street.

  CHAPTER 24

  According to Janaki

  The boy was all right – for a thieving louse. Nicer manners than I’d expected and seemingly decent in his everyday behaviour. Anyway, he could help me. I don’t know if I would’ve thought to throw the fire extinguisher, for example. And I was mortified by the reading thing. I could see it really upset him.

  Out on the street we looked a little peculiar, but not too bad, for the neighbourhood. First thing, I got out my phone and checked for a signal now we were overground. But I couldn’t ring Mr Maggs now. It would be inconsiderate, as he’d be sleeping.

  Clearly our first stop should be an Internet cafe, where I would track Nigella Lurch and Julie Mordy.

  ‘I’ll find Julie Mordy,’ he said. ‘She’s not the kind of girl you get on the web.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. If it meant splitting up, I was not in favour. What if he went off and I lost him? Well, I had the same two clues he had, and – judging by what had happened so far – a better brain with which to follow them up. But he was brave, and used to trouble, and I wasn’t.

  ‘Come with me first,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll go and do your thing.’ I looked a bit pleading. It worked.

  The Internet search, however, did not. No sign of where Nigella Lurch lived.

  We sat drinking hot chocolate in the all-night Internet cafe, the lights bright and the mood peculiar. My mouth had a nasty taste in it from the earliness of the hour, and the hot chocolate was so fake that it did not help.

  ‘You could come back to Maggs with me,’ I said suddenly.

  He looked surprised. I was surprised myself.

  ‘I have to let Mr Maggs know that I’m all right,’ I said. ‘If I tell him you’re trustworthy, he’ll trust you.’

  I could see the words on the tip of his tongue: ‘But I’m not trustworthy.’ He didn’t say it.

  I didn’t trust him, anyway. But I wasn’t convinced he was a bad guy at heart. And I wanted to keep him close. What’s that saying – ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We can have baths, and bacon and eggs, and you’ll be safe from the police.’

  I think it was the bacon and eggs that swung it.

  We walked there, down little streets, him nervous and quick, me tired but exhilarated. He did look very different with the dark hair, but I could see he didn’t want to stay visible for long. Also, it occurred to me that he might not trust me! Which of course from his point of view was perfectly reasonable.

  It gave me something else to think about though, as we scurried through the dawn light. Was I going to hand him over to the police, in the end?

  After a while, I said, ‘Don’t worry. Really, it’ll be all right. Please trust us. We’re trusting you, after all.’

  He looked at me with his silvery-blue eyes – too light to be real – and I did my best to look friendly and innocent. I had no intention of betraying him. He and his brother just wanted the money; I just wanted to get the book back. That was all.

  To be honest, he looked like an animal at the end of a chase. He looked like he had nowhere else to go.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I asked him suddenly.

  ‘Where’s yours!’ he responded rudely.

  That shut both of us up.

  When we were nearly at Berkeley Square he paused for a moment and got out his phone.

  I pretended not to listen.

  ‘Finn?’ he said.

  Whoever it was was clearly asleep.

  ‘No, don’t say a word. Don’t tell no one I called. All right? Schtum, Finn. I need to know where Julie M is. That’s all. You on your own? What? Oh. Oh, really. All right, get me the address then. He’s what? He’s there, is he… Oh, crike… Finn, don’t talk to me about Billy. I don’t care what he does. Listen, if he wants to end up a drunk like Dad then… What? How would I know where he got the caio? How much has he got? What are you suggesting, Finn? No! I told you before… Yeah… Well, just don’t say you’ve talked to me… Listen, it’s not my problem, Finn. Yes. I know. Poor Mum. If you don’t like it or if Mum doesn’t like it then why don’t you run away too, yeah, and live on the streets and have no caio and nowhere to bliddy go – yeah. Finn – you know about Dad and me. You know I ain’t talking to him ever. You lot have got to look after Mum. It ain’t safe for me to try – Oh, Finn, listen, man. I can’t do nothing. It ain’t worth the aggro, Finn – Listen, just get me that address. I’ll call you later. Yeah, man. Sorry.’

  He ignored me after that. His tight little face was as white as a piece of fish.

  I walked on ahead like I hadn’t overheard any of it, but my mind was ticking over it and I was very curious.

  So Billy had money – which meant he’d handed the book over already. And Joe was telling the truth about the hard time and the tough home life.

  For a moment, I thought of my father. I didn’t even know where he was. To be honest, with Mama dead it makes no difference. I was most concerned to do the right thing by Mr M
aggs.

  I had a tiny, half-formed, wispy memory of Mama. Perhaps it was not even a memory, but an imagining, or a memory of an imagining. It is a feeling more than anything. A feeling of warmth, a sense of flesh, a brown cheek, a strand of smooth hair, a curve, a sweetness. Perhaps I made it up. It makes me cry when I think of it.

  I, who had lost my family, wondered what it would be like to choose to leave your family. How dreadfully he must have suffered, to choose to leave. How could that feel?

  Like his pale face, I supposed. Pinched and tight, for the rest of your life.

  I walked quicker. I wanted Mr Maggs and the smell of old books.

  And then it struck me.

  If Billy already had the money, why was Joe still here? Why didn’t he just go and argue with Billy? He didn’t need to go to Nigella’s… He didn’t have to give me the address. He didn’t have to help me.

  I was alone, and I was stuck, and I had nothing to go on, and I was out on the street at dawn. And I had failed.

  All I could do was call the police, but if Nigella Lurch has the book and she’d offered the reward and that was all legal, then… It just didn’t seem right. Mr de Saloman had left it with us. My head was whirling.

  ‘So, you’ll be off now, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ he replied.

  I might as well ask. I had nothing to lose.

  ‘Well, if Billy’s got the money, you don’t need the book any more… I was wondering, would you…?’ There was no reason why he should but maybe he would. ‘If you get that address, would you tell me anyway?’

  ‘The money? I don’t give a toot about the money,’ he said.

  I was shocked. I’d thought…

  ‘Then what…?’ I said.

  ‘It’s the book,’ he said. And then a look of shock passed over him, as if he realized he’d said something impossible. Which of course he had.

  ‘But you can’t read,’ I said. ‘What do you want the book for, if you can’t read?’

  He was staring at me, his face as unreadable to me as the book must be to him.

  He couldn’t answer the question.

  ‘I just do,’ he said. It was a pathetic answer.

  ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘tell me the truth. I’m an honest person and I need the truth.’