by John Macrae
An animal growl of approval came from the audience, making the chairman mouth grave platitudes about the rule of law, at which point a large black lady in the audience pointed at the radical MP, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable, and said in ringing tones, "What law? His law? This Vengeance Man or whoever done this has done more to uphold the rule of law in the area than any do-gooding police community relations project. And as for the local Council,” she spat out…
Anyway, you get the drift. The verbal battle burst out anew at this. Grinning from ear to ear, I retired to bed with a book and the stereo. For the first time in ages I missed not having someone to share my satisfaction
* * *
By next morning the papers had got the Press act together and, except for the Mirror (which claimed in an exclusive that the shooting was the work of Neo-Nazi racists), a common line emerged. To my surprise, I was ‘The Vengeance Man’, a folk hero, a sort of cross between Batman and Robin Hood. To say that I was startled would be an understatement. I had underestimated the British Press's capability to invent myths and peddle them as truth. I read on, with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Maybe Hepworth had been right: perhaps I was a dangerous schizophrenic. At least, that’s what the papers were saying.
Because I had become a gang.
Clearly the two survivors had talked openly to the police and, by the sound of it, to the reporters, too. I had been a 'group of fierce Scots killers armed to the teeth', 'with the reactions of a panther'. Now, while I'm as amused by press bullshit as the next man, I could live without this kind of nonsense. A folk hero I'm not. And there’s only one of me.
The broadsheet leader columns were more thoughtful and restrained. All of them agreed, however, that what I'd done had been thoroughly reprehensible and I must be tracked down. But there was a constant undertone of satisfaction about the whole affair that no-one could miss, and that was making a lot of policeman uncomfortable. After all, as one of the media pundits said on the radio, "This Vengeance Man - he's hardly a danger to the law-abiding general public, is he?"
I noticed that even when they dragged the Home Secretary onto the ‘Today’ programme to denounce me, there seemed to be a certain ambivalence; hard to pin down, but definitely there. However, I was clearly a challenge to Establishment values, and they didn't like that.
Nowhere was this more marked than when one of the police spokesmen on the 'Today' programme had speculated on the link between Spicer, Varley and the three muggers. I stopped shaving to listen as the interviewer asked him if there were any links between the three crimes. The Assistant Commissioner was ultra-cautious. After all, media exposure like this could ruin his career, you could almost hear him thinking. "Well, we have no evidence of that at the moment. They may not be linked."
"Oh, come now, Commissioner. Surely all three attacks; that's Spicer, Varley and now this, they all described a tallish Scots man? This Vengeance Man? And a group of Scotsmen? And didn't they say on all three occasions that they were 'taking revenge'?"
"Well, we can't be too sure. There might be a pattern, I agree, but we mustn't appear to be too definite, too soon. These are still early days in our enquiries, you know."
"Do you really mean to say that these three crimes, all involving this Scotsman or this gang, are not connected?"
"Well, as I say, we wouldn't like to commit ourselves at this stage of our enquiries. We don't want to encourage public alarm, do we? This whole Vengeance Man idea is very dangerous. People taking the law into their own hands for whatever reason. The important thing is that we don't want to encourage this sort of thing, do we?" he pleaded. Too right, sport, I thought: it could put you lot out of a job, couldn't it?
I returned to scraping away at my chin, delighted by the interviewer's obvious disbelief and the policeman's wriggling. The interviewer, unimpressed, changed tack. "Very well, Commissioner, what would you say, then, to members of the black community who claim that they must protect themselves as there is now some kind of group of, what appears to be anti-black, anti-gang vigilantes prowling the streets of South London? Vigilantes who may strike again ?”
The policeman reacted hastily. "Oh, I don't believe that's the case. We don't want to cause unnecessary alarm, do we? After all, there's only been the attack on these three - ah - unfortunate members of the community, black and white, here and the same applies to the other two cases as well. It’s clear that there seems to have been a pretty specific motive in each case. It’s the same in all three attacks, surely? The victims all appear to have done something that could make them a target….a potential target…”
I stopped shaving again and held my breath. He'd fallen for it. The interviewer, seemingly impressed by the policeman's careful jargon, set up the trap door with an apparently bland: "Well, if it wasn't some racially motivated group who shot these three young muggers, alleged muggers, then who was it?"
The pedestrian spokesman stepped onto the trapdoor. "Oh I think it’s something more like revenge." Too late, the policeman saw the admission he'd plunged into. "Well, that's what we believe the motive to be. Might be."
Pressing his advantage, the interviewer pounced. "So you admit that someone, some self appointed vigilante is going around taking revenge? Perhaps on a contract? That perhaps there is a some kind of Vengeance Man, some vigilante gang, out there?
But the policeman wouldn't be drawn any more and retreated behind the smokescreen of verbiage that police spokesmen must learn at the Police College at Bramshill. If he thought it improved the Police's image on this occasion, he was badly wrong. Instead it left a clear impression that there was a gang of vigilantes out there or some Vengeance Man, and that he was dangerous, armed to the teeth and only hitting known villains of the nastiest sort. By the end of the ‘Today’ interview, they'd made me sound like Clark Kent, padding around wild-eyed looking for a phone booth to change in and doing stuff the police couldn't – or wouldn’t - do.
In a high old humour I set out to work. My stars said that Jupiter was going backwards, and that I'd better watch out.
Which was crap, as I had a good day with things seeming to click magically into place. But when I got back that evening, something was missing. By eight o'clock I decided, God knows why, I had to get out of the flat. Normally I'm totally self contained, but for once I felt the walls were coming in on me. I decided to eat out and wandered to the only wine bar in the area that doesn't seem to be the haunt of the local bunch of floating gayboys.
As I sat, feeling curiously dissatisfied, picking at some mushrooms and a carafe of very vin-ordinaire, I glanced up, to meet a pair of soft brown eyes looking at me. They seemed familiar. Puzzled, I held them a fraction longer than is wise. 'Avoid eye contact' is one of the oldest rules in the book to prevent drawing attention to yourself. Baffled, I looked again. Where had I seen those eyes before?
Suddenly I remembered. After I'd gone to see Barbara's baby I had called into a pub for a drink; it was there that I had seen a pale-faced little piece, with the same rather spaniel-like dark brown eyes, that looked unusual - and then I'd walked out. This time she smiled back; a little nervously, I thought. No wonder, I was obviously staring at her. I answered her smile and returned to my mushrooms. From time to time I looked up; she caught my eye again and eventually I got up to go to the Gents.
On my return I deliberately walked close by her stool. She looked at me and smiled again - a warm, inviting sort of smile that had me saying, "Don't I know you from somewhere?" almost without realising it.
Her answer was as quick. "I was thinking that, too. I wonder where?"
"Do you ever go to the Bunch of Grapes?" A flare of remembrance widened her eyes. She had long lashes and, if you looked closely, the tiniest cast in one eye.
"Of course ... you were in there one night. And you went out in a hurry, I think."
She had a good voice. Not too la-di-da but she obviously didn't scrub floors for a living either. It went with the smart pale green blouse and secretarial grey s
kirt. A wide black belt with a simple buckle emphasised the slim waist, and underneath the heavy coat, caped across her shoulders, I caught tantalising glimpses of the blouse tight across full breasts. I felt a quickening interest. She was smallish, pretty, with the heady smell of an expensive scent clinging around her like a warm, invisible cloud.
She smiled up at me now, head cocked on one side, alive to my awareness of her femininity.
"Are you waiting for someone?" I nodded towards the door.
"No. I came in with a friend but she's had to dash off".
"Oh. Would you like to join me? Have a glass of wine."
She looked at me appraisingly, for what seemed a long time; then picked up her glass and handbag, and slid off the stool. Her eyes met mine again. "Yes. I'd like that."
Her name was Joy, and we shared another - rather better - bottle of white wine. She was an easy woman to talk to. She was twenty six, lived in a flat with two other girls and worked as a personal assistant to some wheel in the oil business. Her manner was witty, relaxed without being overtly sexual, and radiated a kind of seductive femininity that got straight through to me.
I felt better than I had for years - literally. I realised that here was the missing ingredient to complete my satisfaction at the Brixton hit. We talked, and laughed, for what seemed only minutes, but took lots of coffee, two bottles of Perrier water and turned out to my surprise to be over an hour and a half when I eventually glanced at my watch. I raised an eyebrow, and started to ask, "Shall we ... "
But Joy cut me short and just nodded smilingly, collecting her handbag. Her hand brushed lightly across mine.
On the way out, I let her lead up the narrow stone steps from the basement wine bar to the street. Her bottom wiggled invitingly and I gently put my hands on either side of her hips as she preceded me. "You've got a lovely figure, you know."
She stopped on the next step and turned. She looked flushed, but was smiling. "You're very sure of yourself ..." she started but I pulled her head down and kissed her. Her lips were warm and surprisingly dry; after a seconds hesitation she melted to let the wet, warm little minnow of her tongue slither into my mouth as I let the glow of our bodies flow together on the stair and pulled her close. She cuddled in naturally and happily, curling an arm around my neck as naturally as a kitten in a basket.
How long we kissed I don't know. A cough behind me and an 'excuse me' broke us up to allow an overweight business man and his overdressed wife pass up the stairs with sideways glances at us, and a barely suppressed wink from him. Giggling, we followed, holding hands, joined by a shared conspiracy.
From the wine bar it was a short walk to my flat. We strolled talking and laughing; every few yards stopping to kiss and embrace. A sour-faced woman walking an Airedale tutted at our depravity as she stalked by one of our hugs.
"Disgusting ..." we heard her mutter. Doubtless her lips were pressed disapprovingly together too. Giggling even more, we ran the last few yards, with Joy breathless and glowing like a schoolgirl.
"Wait 'till I get you inside," I growled. She laughed aloud "Can you wait that long?!
Once inside the front door I kissed her again. She pushed me away; her hair was tousled and her eyes shone. She looked beautiful and I wanted her. I was giddy with desire. "Do you want a drink or something?"
"No." She hooked a finger into the waistband of my trousers. "I'm going to seduce you.” She looked stern. "Where's this bedroom of yours?" I nodded to the door and she pulled me by the trouser band into the room
Once inside, she wrapped herself against me, kissing, and pressing her knee between my thighs. I started to try to unbutton her blouse but she pushed my hands away her tone mock reproving. "No ... I'm supposed to be seducing you." Her fingers pulled open my shirt.
"Not if I get there first" My hands returned to their task. From there it was a frantic race between us. I pulled the blouse from her shoulders, trailing kisses over her neck, her throat, her breasts, cupping the fullness of the lacy bra and drifting over her smoothly rounded stomach.
She pulled me up and said, "Wait," while her skirt and slip slithered to the floor, allowing her dark stocking tops to highlight the creamy skin of her inner thighs. Did women really still wear stockings, I wondered? I gently kissed and caressed each leg as I carefully unrolled each stocking in turn. Then I nuzzled her belly, pressing my face deep into the silken briefs, with their tiny pink rose buds. She stroked my hair, soft, kind, loving. "You're very gentle and slow, you know. For such a ... well, hard-looking man."
I looked up from the gentle hillock of her belly and its white briefs, over the jutting lace covered breasts, to her liquid, astonishingly big eyes, staring down at me. Then she pulled me carefully to my feet. I felt dizzy with passion and the blood pounded in my head as she slid her hands down to squeeze my bulge, watching me closely and smiling as the caresses reflected in my face, while she eased my pants away and bent to give me the warmth of her lips. The roaring of the blood in my head became louder than ever. Something snapped. I pulled her head up sharply by the hair and dragged her to the bed while she squeaked with fright. Then I ripped her delicate underthings away, and took her.
"Slowly, gently," she implored. But I had no thought other than my own controlled, ruthless surgings.
"No," she cried, almost weeping, as I thrust finally, again, all pretence abandoned. "Oh please, no...gently....wait." But I didn't. I took her in a slippery, sweating welter of sheets and her tears, a biting, raging monster, as months of frustration and pent up feeling thundered through my pounding veins.
For a long moment I hung over her, panting, replete, all passion spent. She lay weeping softly bright scratches on her flanks, one shoulder bitten. Her brassiere was pulled half off, the straps ripped away.
She looked at me with horror, and burst into tears.
"Oh my God," I heard myself say. "What have I done?" And then I tried to hold her, to comfort her, while she sat and cried. I even went out and made two mugs of tea, and we sat like fools, staring blankly at each, cradling our mugs until the hurt, bitter tears ceased to flow.
"Why?" she asked, snuffling through the wet mask of disillusion and shock. "Why? I liked you. I wanted you? Why?" The tears flowed again.
For the first time in years I felt pain. Deep, emotional pain, the pain that comes from hurting someone unnecessarily and you can't take it back, whatever you do. The damage is done. I looked away, unable to speak, choked and silent, hating myself. To my astonishment tears rolled down my cheeks, and, overcome with shame, I kept muttering like a fool, "I'm sorry; I'm sorry."
My father's old clock chimed in the hall in the long silence.
After a long time staring away, to my surprise a soft hand reached out and stroked my face and my ribs, with undeserved kindness. Despairing almost, I looked at her, trying to feel emotions like a normal person, trying to let her feeling reach out and touch me, trying to understand the shame of my own stupidity and lust. I choked, gulping, shaking my head in a silent shriek of despair.
Joy must have felt something of my anguish. A look of wonder, almost of comprehension came into her face. "You poor man." Her fingers traced the pink scar on my left ribs. "What's the matter? How did you do that?" The question was abstracted.
It broke the spell. "Oh," I lied lamely, "I fell and cut it on some broken glass."
She looked at me for a long time as I tried to regain control, to collect myself, then nodded disbelieving, her fingers probing the misjoined bones underneath the old wound, a legacy of the last days in Iraq, long ago, of another existence. Then she blinked back her tears and softly pulled my head down to her stomach. She cradled me close like a child and slowly lay back, relaxed, pleading, but cautious. She was eying me as if I was dangerous.
Shamed, I dropped my head and nuzzled the damp little bush. She held my head firmly, and stared at me for what seemed to be a very long time.
Then she said, "Please. But very gently. Please." She was like a little girl.
&n
bsp; "It's all right, love," I said thickly. "It's all right now." As I delicately bent to my task she nodded slowly, lying back, eyes closing with pleasure, spreading her legs wide, stroking my hair. I was very gentle and very patient.
Joy stayed the whole night. We made love, dozed, told each other our life stories and explored one another's minds and bodies. Eventually she told me to stop apologising. I did. At four o'clock we were eating smoked salmon sandwiches, sprawled on the sofa, our legs intertwined. She looked around. "This is a funny flat, you know."
I followed her gaze. "Funny?"
"Yes. It's like nothing I've seen. Half like a monastery cell, and half like an advert for the good life. Its very ... well, spare, I suppose."
I looked again, taking it in through another's eyes for the first time really. "How?"
"Well," she paused "No plants. Lots of bare spaces on the walls and floor. Only a few pictures, although they seem good, expensive, I must say. A filing cabinet, like an office, alongside an antique bookcase. It's just a weird mix, that's all."
I wondered aloud if she thought it needed a woman's touch, and got a cushion hurled with surprising force at my head. Then she got up to walk around, my old dressing gown absurdly big and loose on her vulnerable body. She paused by the old bookcase. "Habitat, it's not," she muttered. "And your books!"
I looked across at my old friends. "Books? What's wrong with them?"
"Well, it's such an odd mix. All those books in Arabic. Did you do Arabic at University?"