“Well obviously I’m going to have to think about it but I love the place.”
“I’m sure you do Mr. Smith.”
The smile has vanished now.
He gestures for me to go down the stairs first.
“No after you, I insist.”
No way is he getting my back again.
We reach the street and he turns to me.
“We’ll speak soon.” I say.
“I’m sure we will Mr. Smith.”
I keep checking over my shoulder all the way back to my studio and once inside I lock the door and open a bottle of Rioja. After half a glass I feel level enough to call Leon and see what he has found out.
“Look mate it was what I thought. That Kane put it on some chick and well her brother... you can guess the rest. But look I’m not droppin’ you his name. He’s a good kid and he doesn’t deserve Carlton McGregor knowing who he is.”
“You know I wouldn’t do that...”
“Not at first, maybe, but once he dangled a few grand in front of you you’d give it up.”
“You’re probably right. So it was nothin’ to do with business?”
“Nothin’.”
“Cool, I’ll phone you about dropping that oner round and seeing Charmaine and the little one.”
“Speak soon.”
Once I disconnect the call I recharge my glass and dial the number on the post-it that McGregor gave me. A smoky female voice answers after the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Is McGregor there?”
“No but I can pass a message to him can I ask who’s calling?”
“Tell him it’s Charlie Bars and that I need to see him.”
“Thank you Mr. Bars.”
She disconnects the call and I’m left waiting for McGregor to return it. The wait leaves me with time to think about what I’m about to do. I’m signing a man’s death warrant. I can’t over think this or I’ll end up doing something stupid so I do the only thing that I know will take my mind off it. I put the stereo on, pour another glass of wine and try to get the painting finished.
My phone rings after a couple of hours and McGregor tells me to meet him at a mini-market on the Old Kent Road.
The stark lighting in the mini-market makes it seem surreal as I cut through the vegetable aisle to the storeroom at the back. One of McGregor’s hired goons is sat on a stool by the door and another stands here at the back of the store. He nods as I approach and pushes open one of the doors that lead into the storerooms and office at the back of the main store.
“Boss is inside.”
I walk past and see McGregor seated behind another desk.
“How many of these places have you got?”
“Plenty. Have you got what I need?”
“Well no one is trying to muscle you.”
“Who dropped Demon and Kane then?”
“They were separate incidents. It looks like a property developer stabbed Demon up because he was bringing down the property value by selling rocks on the stairs.”
“You being serious?”
“Quarter of a mil serious enough for you?”
McGregor nods.
“Serious enough and it’s hard to fault a man for killing when there’s that much change at stake. But examples have to be set. You’ve got his name and the address of this prime bit of real estate?”
I’d thought ahead and both are written on a piece of paper in my pocket. I pass it across to him.
“And Kane?”
“Over a girl.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. He was sticking his cock in so much gash it could’ve been anyone.”
McGregor gives me the eye and I think he knows that I could’ve found out but he leaves it.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
He tosses another wad of bills to me and looks away.
“We’re done.”
I nod and walk out, glad to be out of his presence.
And so I go home to my painting and another bottle of wine. I get myself busy and stay that way for the better part of a week. Eventually I need more paint and to stock up the cupboards. While I’m out I grab and a copy of the local paper and there it is on the front page; a fire in Ley House, one flat gutted, the owner unavailable for comment. Unavailable because he’s probably been cut into pieces and fed to pigs in Suffolk or buried in a lime pit on some forgotten farm in Kent.
What does it matter to me? I’ve got pictures to paint.
Hungry is the Dark
The air didn’t taste any different and the light looked the same. It was only the people and the places that had changed. Harry walked around the town centre drinking in the sights; everyone seemed to have a ‘phone at their ear, the clothes looked different and the shapes and angles of the cars had smoothed. But people were still people and Harry was still Harry. He set himself down on a bench with a sigh and watched the women as they shopped; high heels, freshly done hair, tight leggings like second skins, well cut clothes that clung to their figures. It was a long time since Harry had seen so many women, a long time since he had seen any woman who wasn’t a doctor, teacher or screw. As Harry looked out at the crowds thronging around the shops he occasionally caught sight of one of the dark things, they appeared in the corner of his vision as dark smudges. When he did see them Harry turned away quickly and concentrated on the more pleasant sights.
He’d been seeing the dark things for so long that they didn’t bother him like they once did. Harry shifted himself on the seat as another dark smudge moved at the edge of his vision, this time he turned to face it. The dark thing clung to the back of a tall girl, pretty but for the sour look that marred her features. It rode high on her back like a jockey forcing its mount onwards; it was the size of a large toddler with skin that seemed so dark that it drained the light from around it. The girl swung her hips and strode away down the high street the head of the creature turned to stare at Harry. Harry stared back at the dead black eyes for a moment and then got up and walked away, the day ruined.
*
Back in his cell Harry stripped down to his shorts and vest. After carefully folding his clothes he put them away in his locker. He placed his palms on the cold floor and counted off his press-ups until lights out, he reached sixty eight. In the dark he wiped the sweat from his head with a towel and then lay down on his bunk, deciding he had done well, another step taken - another step closer to release.
Harry called his daughter, Nicola, from the blue box on the wing. He got her voicemail and left a message with the details of his pending release. He knew there was no chance of Nicola letting him stay with her but he wanted to hear her voice. He needed to know if she’d thought anymore about letting him meet his granddaughter, Rhian. Harry hung up the phone and looked around him. This place had been his home for twelve months. Before that he had spent twenty three years in Cat-A prisons up and down England. Not many like Harry in here, not as many of the dark things either.
In here people tried to keep their noses clean, get home visits and then get free. Harry looked over the other prisoners; conmen, fraudsters, ASBO-breachers, chumps and mugs. They were the kind of people who wouldn’t mind having a nickname. In Harry’s mind the only people who had nicknames were failed boxers and black pimps.
When he had first gone down for his long stretch Harry had been sent to the Scrubs and knocked heads with a joker from the Midlands called Donnie Smalls who was in on an armed robbery beef. Donnie got it into his head that everyone on the wing ought to have a nickname and he took to calling Harry – “Hatchet”. Harry told Donnie to leave it. The other cons waited and watched. To Donnie, Harry not liking his new moniker just made it funnier. Hilarious in fact until he slipped in the kitchens one day and somehow managed to hold his right hand on a grill until it resembled a crispy Peking duck. Harry never had a nickname after that and Donnie had to learn to play with himself southpaw.
Harry sat and stared at the wall of his cell. His eyes were fixed o
n half a piece of A4 paper that was stuck to the wall and the five words that were on it; ‘Not forever, just a bit’. Harry had first seen the words carved into the wall of a holding cell during his trial. They had stayed with him and he tried to think on them every day. He kept his hands, palm down, on his knees and waited, time meant little to Harry. What were thirty minutes when you weighed them against two hundred and eighteen thousand four hundred and sixty five hours?
Harry waited.
*
“What have you ever done for me?”
Harry stared down in his mug of tea and watched the heat rising from it like it used to do from the prison laundry presses.
“Well?”
He looked up at his daughter and from the set of her face he knew he’d had a wasted journey.
“I just wanted to see you, Nicola, to try and say sorry. See if there was any way I could try and make up for all the wasted years.”
Nicola slammed her tea cup down on the table.
“Don’t! You can’t just stroll in here after twenty five years and think a few words will make up for it. You and your shit sent mum into an early grave and before that you were gone anyway. Fuck you, just fuck you!”
Harry stood up unsure of where to put his hands.
He wanted to pull Nicola to him and hug her but in the end he put his hands behind his back.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you and Rhian, make sure you were okay.”
Nicola shook her head silently.
“Please, Nic . . .”
“I think you’d better go.”
Nicola refused to look at Harry as he left.
*
There weren’t many of the old faces left but Harry did the rounds of Soho looking for something to anchor himself to. He walked the streets; D’Arblay, Berwick, Old Compton, Lexington, Old Windmill and Greek - the same streets where the Messinas had plied their trade, where Jack Spot had fought Albert Dimes and Darby Sabini had walked with a spring in his step.
Some of the pubs were gone and the names had changed on others but a few of the old places were still there, in spirit if not in fact. Harry watched the wildlife; the tramps, the drunks, the junkies, the chancers and the few working girls he could see. It seemed to him that Soho had been more honest in the days when he was running around the streets. Then the area had been more up front, in your face screaming, whereas it now seemed to be behind a veil, chastised and hidden but as dirty as ever - Harry walked and walked and then walked some more until his feet ached.
Harry tried to work out what was what and who was who, keeping his eyes open; check the lads putting the cards up in the ‘phone boxes, all eastern Europeans now, spot which anonymous doorways furtive looking men emerged from, watch the street dealers and clock the clip artists luring punters in for cokes that cost a score minimum. Filing it all away, remembering who he was and where he had been, with sky over his head now instead of concrete – a free man in London.
*
When Harry got his first day release one of the screws escorted him into town and took him to a coffee shop. It was nothing like the greasy snack bars that Harry had haunted when he was on the outside. The coffee shop he sat in seemed a temple to polished modernity; free trade coffee for the price of a pint, uniformed baristas shipped in from around the globe and paid minimum wage, brushed steel altars and a whole cult worshipping the corporate bean. Harry ordered a latte.
Now he sat in another coffee shop, a clone of that first temple, opposite his daughter. Again Harry ordered a latte and Nicola had a hot chocolate. They sat in silence, Harry staring at the foam on his drink, until Nicola spoke.
“She’s gone.”
“Who has?”
“Rhian.”
“Gone where?” asked Harry his voice level but his stomach dropping like a lift with the cables cut.
“I don’t know.”
Tears appeared in Nicola’s eyes.
“Up here, West End somewhere with her boyfriend.”
Harry gripped the table edge with his fingertips.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to fucking well find her. You know people, don’t you?”
“That was a long time ago, Nicola. More than twenty years ago, places change - I’m not even sure any of the same faces are around anymore. I’ve changed too.”
Nicola looked disgusted, as though Harry had just exposed himself at her.
“So you won’t help?”
“I never said that!”
Harry slapped his palm down on the table. People turned from their cappuccinos and espressos to look. Harry placed his hands palm down on his knees and stared at the floor between his boots. The people quickly turned back to their affairs. Harry looked up at Nicola.
“I’ll look, I’ll find her if she’s here and I’ll bring her back to you.”
Nicola nodded.
Harry reached inside his jacket and took out a biro. He used a piece of napkin for note paper.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Four days.”
“She done anything like this before?”
“She’s stayed out all night but she always came home the next day.”
“You’ve tried ringing her?”
“Of course I have! About a hundred times but her ‘phone is always switched off and the voicemail is full.”
“Who’s the boyfriend?”
“He’s called Danny Carter. He’s a bit older than her . . .”
Harry cut in.
“How much older?”
Nicola looked away.
“I think he’s nineteen.”
“Rhian is fourteen, Nicola.”
“Don’t come like that with me, daddy. You weren’t here when I was fourteen and you’ve never even met Rhian so don’t act like you know anything about this.”
Harry held up his hands, palms open.
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Somewhere out near us but he spends a lot of time up here. I’ve never met his family.”
Harry nodded.
“D’you know what he’s into?”
“How d’you mean?”
“I mean puff, pills, chang, horse – what?”
“Jesus! Nothing like that I don’t think. He always seemed like a nice kid. Dressed smart, plenty of money, always kept his car clean.”
“What kind of car?”
“One of those little Italian ones. Bright yellow.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to spot in a city with what two, three million cars.”
Harry stared into Nicola’s eyes until she looked away.
“You want me to find her, Nic, you need to give me something here.”
“I think he said he works for his uncle.”
“Name?”
“I don’t think he said.”
“Come on, you have to think.”
Harry sat with the pen poised over the napkin.
“I think Danny said his Uncle was called Howie.”
Harry dropped the pen onto the table.
“Howard?”
“No, Howie. Could’ve been Howard, why?”
Picking up the pen Harry shook his head.
“Nothing, I used to know a Howard ‘round here before I went away. Couple of people used to call him Howie.”
“Maybe you could see if he’s still about?”
Harry laughed and the sound made Nicola shiver.
“I don’t think old Howard would be too pleased to see me. But if it’s him I’ll find out.”
“Do you need anything?”
Harry looked up as though shocked his daughter would ask.
“Money or anything to help you look?”
He shook his head at her.
“No. I’ll use Shanks’ pony to get about and I’m alright for walking about money.”
Nicola nodded.
“There is one thing though.”
; “What?” replied Nicola.
“Have you got a decent photo of her? The one your mum sent me must be seven years old now.”
“Course.”
Nicola scrambled in her handbag and pulled out her purse. From within she pulled a picture of a smiling girl with long auburn hair and dark, dancing eyes.
“That’s a couple of months old.”
Harry stared at the snapshot of his granddaughter, repressing his urge to touch his fingers to the image that looked so like his dead ex-wife.
“Thanks, Nic.”
“Just get her back.”
Harry finished his latte. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
*
Harry had lied. After the two lattes he had a total of fifteen pounds and seventy eight pence in his pocket – all that was left of his discharge grant. He cut away from Covent Garden and down Long Acre until he hit Endell Street. As he walked, he pushed all thoughts of Howard Kinski from his mind. Harry walked halfway up the street and sighed with relief when he saw that the Café Valetta was still there. It looked different but the name was the same. Harry stepped into the cramped coffee bar, empty before the lunchtime rush. A young, thick set man with a five o’clock shadow appeared from the back.
“Alright?”
Harry nodded.
“Get you something?”
“Eddie about?”
“Eddie who?”
“Eddie Nax.”
“Granddad? He’s not here at the minute.”
Harry looked away.
“Any chance you could give him a message for me?”
“Sure, you a mate of his?”
“Yeah. From a long time ago, the good old days.”
Harry forced a smile.
The young man grabbed a pad and a pen.
“Who shall I tell him?”
“Harry Sands.”
The young man stopped writing.
“Shit. Sorry. D’you want to take a seat and I’ll give granddad a call?”
Harry nodded and pulled up a stool to the counter as the younger man disappeared into the back.
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