It Was You

by It Was You (retail) (epub)

  My fresh tip was already stale but as I was down there I decided not to give up straight away. The spot may have been free of sin but I doubted that the evangelist had caused that. It was more likely the police, acting on the complaints of local residents. Young mothers who had seen their toddlers bending down to used needles once too often, old ladies fed up with pulling their dogs away from used condoms. I knew that the girls had probably just moved, and gang turf also meant that they wouldn’t have moved too far. I headed up towards the thundering interchange that is Loughborough Junction, keeping my eyes open. It didn’t take me long to find out that that’s where the circus had moved to. But was Denise Denton one of the attractions?

  I parked in a bus lane across the highway from the six girls who were working the street and reached for my F1, checking each girl out with the zoom. Two of the girls were shivering outside a snooker hall. Another two stood in the doorway of a DSS. Two more were working the junction itself. Unfortunately for me, but not for her, Denise wasn’t one of them. I waited for half an hour, hoping that none of the girls’ supervisors had spotted me watching what was going on. The day was still clear but that particular area of London wasn’t the finest canvas for autumn’s delicate brush: a furry grey mist choked the air, smearing the store fronts and the window sills. The health risks of prostitution are well known but I suddenly thought of another one: asthma. If I’d been them I’d have worn a cycling mask, though that probably wouldn’t have endeared me to prospective clients. Or maybe it would have. As it was, the girls didn’t do anything to attract trade, simply keeping an eye out so that the park wouldn’t have to wait any longer than necessary. A couple of them got lucky even though it was a chilly Friday lunchtime.

  If Denise had been with a punter she’d have been back by now, so I couldn’t see any point in waiting longer. Instead I locked up and walked down to the snooker hall, where I asked the two girls if they knew the face in the picture I was showing them. They both said no, as did the girls who had been outside the DSS but had walked up to see what I was doing. I gave each of them a copy anyway, in case they changed their minds or ran into Denise. My number was stamped on the back and I assured them all that if they rang me and I came and found Denise, there would be fifty quid in it for them.

  ‘I’m not the Bill,’ I said. ‘I won’t do anything to her. I won’t even tell anyone. I just need to know that she’s all right.’

  All four girls took copies of the photo and I thanked them before walking up to the junction itself. By now there was only one person standing there, a tall girl of about eighteen. Or forty. It wasn’t possible to tell. Her face was ageless, pale as an ice lolly with all the syrup sucked out. A cold sore squatted on her lower lip like a squashed bluebottle. My eyes were drawn down from it to the hipbones pressing like mountain ridges through her beer-stained mini dress.

  Beer-stained? I’m staying with beer-stained.

  ‘Business, love?’

  The girl was trying to be casual but her voice was fuelled by desperation. I ignored it and told her, politely, that while I was there for business, my business wasn’t ‘pleasure’. I showed her Denise’s photo and studied her face as she looked at it and I thought that I did see recognition there. When I told her about the fifty notes she looked at me.

  ‘What are you?’ the girl said. ‘Daddy?’

  I explained that I wasn’t Denise’s father, hiding my deeply felt hurt at being thought anywhere near old enough. I could see that the girl wanted the money but I could also see that she wasn’t sure about talking to me. I didn’t push it. Whether she’d call me or not was one thing but right then, with the other girls watching, she needed to give me the flick off. Like I’d done with the other girls I simply thanked her for her time and turned to go.

  ‘Wait.’

  The hand that had taken hold of my left wrist was strong, even though the arm it was attached to was little more than a broom handle with veins. I stopped and looked back, thinking the girl had changed her mind.

  ‘You sure you’re not interested? French for twenty. Without, like. You can have me for forty, though, I’ve got a place close by. Come on, love, I can see you want to.’

  The girl’s mouth trembled and the dead fly jumped. It took me a second to realize that she was smiling. Once again I said no thanks.

  ‘Come on, love, I’m cold you know? What about a hand job? Down here, come on, darling.’

  The girl moved closer, pushing her sunken groin into mine, her grip on my arm closing even tighter. I tried to tell her again that she’d got the wrong man but she ignored me. The bones of her free hand went for my crotch and I couldn’t help it; a reflex jerked me backwards. The girl didn’t let go of my hand in time and the pull yanked her forwards. Before I could catch her she fell, stumbling over, her elbow joining the pavement with a sharp, loud crack. I put out a hand to her, to help her up, asking if she was OK. I put my other hand on her shoulder but she lashed out at it, clambering to her feet on her own. Once she was up she rushed at me.

  ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Come on. It was an accident. Come on.’

  I reached for my wallet to give her a tenner, one hand fending the girl off, but it was no use. She’d snapped. Her arms wheeled around me, aiming at my head, her feet jabbing into my shins. I tried to shake her off gently but I couldn’t. The girl was raging at me, trying to get at my eyes with her nails. I pivoted and swung her, hoping she’d spin off, but she managed to cling onto the sleeve of my jacket. She was spitting at me, trying to claw my face. When she realized I wasn’t going to let her do that she stopped for a second in order to tell me that I was going to die. Then she showed me something to underline her point. A triangle of rusty brown steel arced suddenly towards my eyes. I don’t know how she’d managed it but in her free hand she’d produced a Stanley knife. The point was now underlined, italicized and covered in highlighter.

  I ducked beneath the blade and kicked the girl’s legs from under her. When she was down for the second time, I aimed a foot at her wrist, sending the knife scuttling across the pavement like a frightened roach. I walked towards it and kicked it further up the street.

  ‘My boyfriend, he’s gonna kill you,’ the girl screamed at me. ‘Bastard, he’s gonna kill you!’

  I crossed back through the stationary traffic to my car and sat for a second, waiting as my heart slowly calmed down five octaves. Oh my. The girl was right: I was getting too old for this. I should have gone birdwatching. To my knowledge no one has ever tried to slash David Attenborough. I edged into the nearest lane, next to a Volvo estate being driven by a well-dressed middle-aged woman, who cut a deep glance at me, her face curdled with disgust. She must have seen what had happened. I could feel my face reddening. I wanted to stop her, to tell her, to explain. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Instead I had to endure her contempt, as the same tide carried us back to safety, to north London.

  Chapter Five

  Three hours later someone else took a swing at me. This time it was a short, stocky man with greying hair and a fading tattoo on his left shoulder. While some people would perhaps have been offended at this I welcomed the man’s punches, effective as they were at reducing my life to the simple and immediate business of getting out of the way of them. And throwing some back at him. After three minutes a bell sounded and I waited as a woman called Sally Sullivan ducked into the ring and had a friendly word with my opponent. Then she walked over to me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Sally’s voice hit me harder than any of the punches I’d just been dodging. I shrugged.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’ Sal folded her arms that way she had, which told you she wasn’t going to take anything from you. ‘Calista fucking Flockhart could put more weight behind her punches than that.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Well? It’s Jeff, isn’t it?’

  I turned my back on my opponent. ‘Sally, it’s difficult. He must be forty-five if he’s a day.’


  ‘He’s fifty-one. And he’s been boxing about six times as long as you have. Most of that in the Marines.’

  ‘I know, and he’s good, but…’

  ‘You want to take it easy on him. I see. Don’t be so bloody patronizing. Jeff’s tougher than Darcey Bussell’s big toe.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘How would you feel if one of those teenagers over there thought the same about you?’

  ‘I’d kick his spotty arse.’

  ‘Which is exactly what Jeff wants to do to you. So stop farting around. Anyway, you know what he just said? “I’m taking it easy on the kid, Sal. He’s fit and he’s quick but he looks a bit raw."’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘The kid.’

  ‘So stop wasting ring time and do some work.’

  Jeff and I went another couple of rounds. In spite of what Sal said I could feel the age difference as I dug uppercuts into his softening midriff and made him walk a lot of ring. Added to that was the fact that I was fitter than I’ve ever been, having increased my two nights a week to three. I wasn’t sure why but it might have been in response to a change I’d seen in Mike recently: a slowing down, a slight rounding out that wasn’t just physical. I also had a desperate, psychic war to win against my inner twitcher.

  Afterwards I stretched. The workout had been great but images from the day soon began to drift back into my mind. Jemma. Then the hooker, the tracks I’d seen running up her arm like death-watch beetles. I wondered if the girl I’d failed to find would end up like that. I didn’t know if she would or wouldn’t but I wasn’t going to get involved. I thought about the promise I’d made to the other girls: that I wouldn’t hurt Denise, wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts to anyone. I meant it. I wouldn’t tell Jared where she was. I’d done that once: eight years ago. One damp night not long after I’d set up on my own I’d taken a guy down to a squat in Streatham, where his fourteen-year-old daughter was staying. The guy had seemed genuinely devastated that his baby girl had run away, had wept at my office table as he told me about the death of the girl’s mother and bullying at school. I promised him I’d find her and I did. I thought I was giving both sides a second chance. The father of being a better parent and the girl, Carolyn Oliver, of backing away from a life on the street. Backing away from alleyways and blow jobs, needles passed round in a circle.

  It was only when we walked into the miserable hole she’d taken refuge in that I realized what I’d done. The thin, pale girl cowered in a corner at the sight of her father. His face set like concrete. His only word was ‘Outside,’ spoken in a voice that made my blood run cold. His daughter was terrified, something I could tell even though her face was almost completely hidden behind a curtain of lank, mousy hair. As she rose up from the floor I saw the damp stain spreading between her legs, sticking her skirt to her thighs. The dignity with which she walked past me, and past her father, out to his car, stays in my mind to this day.

  So if any of those girls called me I would simply take Denise’s picture and maybe tell her that her husband wanted her back. Then I’d tell Jared how she was and what she’d said, showing him the pictorial evidence. For this I’d charge a flat fee inclusive of update reports if I ran into Denise in the near future. It’s not ideal. Not for my clients, not for me, and certainly not for the kids I look for. But name me one thing in this world that is.

  * * *

  The bag was free and I thought about a quick session but I felt a pull in my shoulder from a hook I’d tried to extend. I was walking over to the showers when Sal flipped a switch on the beat box, and clapped her hands. There was a girl at her side. By the look of the girl – muscular, tracksuit and trainers, hair in a tight ponytail – she was a kick boxer and had come on the wrong night. But she wasn’t. Sal introduced her as Cherie, a masseur. Or rather she was doing a massage course and needed some guinea pigs. Someone asked if the lotion wouldn’t get stuck in their fur and everyone laughed. I laughed too. I couldn’t believe my luck. When Sal had turned the music back on I approached the girl. I introduced myself, told her about my shoulder, and asked if she could fit me in on Sunday.

  ‘That was easy,’ Cherie said, a smile appearing on a pleasant if rather flat face. ‘But what’s wrong with now?’ She opened her hands.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? After exercise is best and my place is only five minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Your place?’

  ‘Where I’ve got my bench. And my oils and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I thought about it, glancing up at the clock on the wall. It was certainly tempting and I couldn’t, actually, see why not. I hadn’t got anything planned for that night although I had left a message with a former colleague of mine, asking him to call me.

  I’d go and meet Andy Gold if he was free, to talk about Jo, but I could easily fit the massage in first.

  ‘Great.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Right,’ Cherie said, suddenly looking a little nervous. I guessed it was the first time she’d done this and, actually, the concept of inviting strange men back to her place was not, when I thought about it, very wise. I’d tell her that – right after the massage.

  ‘Give me ten minutes to shower,’ I said.

  When I was all clean I towelled off and then dressed, shutting up my locker after me. I was walking back out to Cherie when I heard my phone, ringing from my coat pocket. I reached for it, wondering if it was Andy. I looked at the caller display but the number wasn’t familiar. It was probably one of the girls I’d spoken to earlier. I didn’t really want to schlep down to Loughborough Junction again that day but I would do, if Denise was there. I hit the green button.

  ‘Billy? Billy, where are you?’

  The voice wasn’t Andy’s, or an informant’s, but Mike’s. I was surprised. Mike didn’t often call me at home, let alone on this thing. I saw him four or five days a week as it was. I asked him how he was and when all I got in reply was silence I thought I’d hit cancel the way I sometimes did, by pressing the phone too hard against my cheekbone.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, this is an honour. What can I do for you? If you’re going to ask me about my church attendance record, I’ll tell you now it’s pretty poor. I’ll buy good toys, though.’

  ‘Listen, Billy.’ Mike moved straight through the joke.

  His voice sounded raw, desperate almost, and I frowned. ‘Are you busy? Right now?’

  ‘Not this second,’ I said, looking towards the door. ‘I’ve got five minutes.’

  ‘Billy, can you meet me?’

  ‘Yes.’ I shrugged. ‘Sure. I’d like to. I’m going for some massage and then I’m heading home. I could see you in, say, a couple of hours?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Mike? What is it?’ I was alarmed.

  ‘It’s me, Billy, that’s what.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I, believe me. Can you meet me now?’

  ‘Of course. If you want. But hey, give me a clue. What is it?’

  ‘It’s this.’ Mike paused, letting a long sigh hiss out through his teeth. ‘I’m at home. Ally’s out, she’s at one of those classes. I begged off, saying I wasn’t feeling well. But I’m not ill.’

  ‘Then what is the matter?’

  ‘The matter is I’ve got a bag packed. And I’m about to leave.’

  ‘Leave to go where?’

  ‘I mean, leave Ally.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to leave her. I was about to, at least. Billy, I’ve even got a fucking cab waiting. I was just going out the door but I thought I’d call you first. I don’t know why, I just thought you might… I mean you know us both. Shit, I can’t do this on the phone. Please, can you meet me?’

  ‘Of course. Just don’t do anything stupid. Give me twenty minutes. And Mike?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cancel the cab. You hear me?’

  ‘I will. I’ll pay him off. Thanks, Billy.’

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Mike tried again to tell me what the hell was going on but I told him he was right, not over the phone. We agreed on a place to meet and I hung up. I’d tried my best to sound calm and understanding, but I was far from being either. I was flat on my back. I looked at my phone, hardly able to believe what Mike had said to me. Leave Ally? Now? I could hear the complaining whine of boots on canvas pushing beneath the door, backed by the echoing whump of the boom box. I walked out towards them and told Cherie I couldn’t make it after all. She was disappointed, now that she’d got used to the idea, and I guessed Sal must have OK’d me. I heard her say Sunday then, after all, and I agreed without really listening. Jeff walked over and asked me if everything was OK.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Chapter Six

  Mike was already at Tate Modern when I arrived. I’d dropped my bag off at home and taken a cab down to the other side of Blackfriars Bridge, where I jogged down some stone stairs onto the South Bank. Mike’s words rang through my head and I told myself not to get outraged. Not to say anything until Mike had filled me in, told me just exactly what the hell he was talking about.

  Mike and Ally have a small flat in the Borough, twenty minutes’ walk along the river from Bankside, so we’d agreed to meet outside the members’ bar of the huge gallery, up on the fifth floor. Sharon had bought me membership of the Tate just before she’d left for Afghanistan.

  ‘You can walk around not being able to concentrate on the pints of frozen blood in Lucozade bottles because you’re missing me so much,’ she’d told me.

  I showed my card to the security guard, before holding the door for Mike. I followed my friend into a slick, white, L-shaped room, the edges of which were lined with tasteful leather sofas and small, moulded-plastic cocktail tables. We were greeted by soft lighting and the sound of polite people enjoying themselves. The room was busy, mostly full of artsy young professionals drinking wine or well-dressed women of a certain age nibbling on olives.