by JOHN YORVIK
I waded in and got my arms around Bomberjacket’s neck. Using the one judo hold I knew, I forced my wrist bone into his Adam’s apple. He thrashed fiercely with his elbows, slamming into my ribs but I held on as he bucked and tried to throw me off. Then he reached back and began scratching and gouging my face. Marty used the distraction to swing his legs forward and give Bomberjacket a fierce kick in the balls. I felt him go limp and let him drop to the floor. Meanwhile, Suedehead grabbed an ashtray and smashed it on Marty’s head. He went down. Suedehead stepped forward and was about to hit me with the ashtray when he seemed to notice something in the distance and ran out the door. I turned to see security staff talking to the barman who was pointing our way. I went to get Marty.
“Let’s go!”
I lifted him up. He smiled at me, blood running from the side of his mouth where he’d bit his own cheek.
“I told you. No amateur judo shit,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“C’mon!” I shouted.
We ran to the door. Marty suddenly animated again, took the opportunity to give Bomberjacket another kick in the balls as he passed. Rolling in pain, I heard him shout something as we ran out the door. It sounded like Za-beej.
We ran up Old Street past a shabby all-night garage. Nobody had followed us out of the bar.
“Up here,” Marty said, and pointed to a back lane. “Okay, stop running.”
I stopped. I was shaking out of control. I kneeled down and vomited. Marty stood over me and lit a cigarette.
“You took your time.”
“What?” I managed to say between dry heaves.
“But when you got in there, you did the business,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he really meant it, but he was happy.
“Drug-enhanced performance.”
“You’re covered in blood,” he said.
“So are you.”
Marty took off his jacket and handed it to me. He took off his tee-shirt and used it to clean his face and hands and threw it in a nearby dumper. He put on his jacket and buttoned it up to the collar. He looked me up and down a few times.
“Zip up your jacket and we’re good to go.”
Chapter Three
It was Bank Holiday Monday, almost two days after the fight. I sat at the kitchen table in my dressing gown. My face was scratched and my upper body had taken a beating. I breathed with a slight rattle. To spite myself, I lit a cigarette.
I’d woken on Sunday afternoon with my head hot and whirring like a cheap laptop. My impression was that something bad had happened but I had no idea what. No inkling of what time I got home on Saturday night. No memory of what happened after the fight. Coke had that effect on me: a general loss of faculties. Sunday afternoon, all jacked up and nowhere to go, I drank half a bottle of whisky to bring me down and then slept straight through till Monday and here I was, only half a person.
There was a knock at the door. I didn’t answer. It was nine o’clock on a bank holiday and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. No-one I knew would dream of calling round this early on a day off. The paranoid part of my brain was wondering if I’d caused a scene when I got home Saturday night, and that this was a neighbour coming to remonstrate. I noticed a brown manila envelope had been slid under the door. And such was my lack of interest in post sent in brown envelopes, that it lay there on the green threadbare mat, untouched, while I continued to nurse my monumental hangover, writhing in paranoia.
At eleven o’clock I decided to go down to the pharmacy to get some painkillers, so I had a shower and got ready. It was threatening to rain so I put on my long black mac and brogues. The clothes I’d bought when I first came to London with dreams of being a serious journalist. That was back when I thought my first desk would be on the bottom floor of a broadsheet newspaper instead of in the cramped bunkers of FP.
On the way out of the flat I picked up the envelope. It felt like the usual art gallery promotional material relentlessly sent out to cultural journalists, so I left it on the sideboard for later.
Descending the stairs, I stopped and held on to the banister as a wave of nausea washed over me.
* * *
I had to walk as far as Hampstead to find a chemist that was open on a bank holiday. With some super-strength Ibuprofen in my pocket, I retired to a small bookish cafe and ordered strong coffee and bottled water. The waitress looked at me slightly askance. I realised that she must be checking out the scratches above my left eye.
“I was jumped,” I told her in explanation, though she hadn’t asked for one. “My ribs are killing me. I’m going to take Ibuprofen and hope for the best.” She didn’t reply.
She went out the back and returned quickly with the coffee and water. This time not meeting my eye at all. It was clear that a man with scratches on his face is seen as the aggressor and not the victim. Trying to explain myself had only made it worse.
As I sat there blowing on my coffee, which was too hot to drink, the waitress was whispering to her colleague, who was reading the paper. She glanced at me for a second and then returned nervously back to the paper. I had to get out of there. I swallowed two painkillers with water then asked the waitress to make my coffee to go. She transferred it to a cardboard cup and handed it to me. I paid the bill and left.
Walking over to the kiosk outside Hampstead Underground, I picked up a local newspaper and looked at the front page: Pentonville Strangler Kills Immigrant.
Under the headline was a grainy photo of the immigrant in question. I looked several times at the photo not able to take it in and found myself saying “Natasha” out loud. It was definitely her: “Polish immigrant Dr Natasha Rokitzky who worked at AmizFire Productions was found asphyxiated in her bed in a flat off Pentonville Road. Neighbours discovered the body on Sunday evening. The exact time of death is unknown. Police are appealing for people to come forward with any information.”
Next to the photo of Natasha was a photofit picture of someone that neighbours had seen entering the block of flats with Natasha on Thursday night. It had my eyes and nose. The street raptors had got a good look at me. I sat on the steps of the Underground entrance drinking the coffee in gulps. I put down the coffee and lit a cigarette, my hand shaking as I put it to my lips. White lights flashed in my peripheral vision. For a split second I saw an image of a blood splattered bathroom, a knife in my hand. I shook my head in a literal attempt to remove the picture from my mind.
My first thought was to go to the police and tell them as much as I knew. Clear my name. But then I looked at the article again. “The Pentonville Strangler has killed twice before and has baffled police by leaving no clues.” I thought about all the times the police had settled for the most likely suspect in cases where there were no other leads: the boyfriend, the husband, the jealous ex. Those convenient credible victims only finding freedom after a decade or more of wrongful incarceration. Maybe they would hang the two other murders on me, clearing their backlog of unsolved cases.
Natasha and I hadn’t had sex so I was sure to fit some criminologist’s profile: the killer who strangled because of his impotency. And if we had consummated our brief affair, then traces of my DNA would be enough to secure the conviction. As it was my DNA would be all over the cigarette butts, the glass of water; fingerprints all over her body. More white flashes, this time my hands covered in blood.
I tried to concentrate on the blurb under the photofit. “If you think you know this man, or you can give us any information as to his whereabouts, don’t hesitate to call this number.” I reached for my coffee and sipped the dregs, acid burned in my stomach. I had the sensation someone was watching me. I looked up and saw the newspaper vendor speaking on his mobile with his hand over his mouth. Across the road, the waitress leant against the window looking at me while she smoked. A taxi driver was sitting in his parked cab reading the newspaper and glancing over in my direction. White flashes of Natasha dead in the bath, her expression twisted and grotesque.
I stood up and walked towards the
Tube barriers. I couldn’t find any change for the machine and there was a long queue at the ticket office. I didn’t want to use my bank card in the machine because it would register my identity. I was pacing back and forth with the feeling the world was closing in on me. The newspaper vendor was standing in the entrance of the station. He seemed to be gesticulating my way. With a quick look around, I took a run up and leapt the barrier.
I heard the shouts as I hit the ground and headed for the stairs. A large man blocking my way prepared to grab me. Always a nifty winger, I feinted to the left and twisted to the right leaving him grasping at air.
I headed for the fire escape. But I was in trouble. Someone was following me. I heard their heavy footsteps thundering behind me as I sprinted down the spiral staircase into the depths of Hampstead Underground.
I jumped four, five sometimes six steps at a time, each impact causing pain to shoot up through my body. One slip, one clumsy footfall and I’d break a leg, but there was nothing else for it but to keep running. The profile of my pursuer crept ahead of me filling up the wall like a Victorian shadow puppet. Although the man himself was still a good twenty yards behind me, I knew he was gaining on me with every step. I had to lose him before I got to the platform or I’d be caught.
I stopped virtually mid-stride and threw my body across the stairwell. Seconds later a man came rushing towards me. In a last gasp attempt to avoid my raised leg, he leapt past me, then fell tumbling over and over before landing in a heap. I ran down the stairs to see if he was alright. He was a big man, probably a security guard. He was wearing a blue uniform and a black baseball cap with a LUSecurity insignia. He was in a lot of pain and looked petrified as I approached. I crouched down beside him and moved my hand towards his face. He flinched as I pulled the cap off his head.
I could hear more footsteps coming, so I got on my way. I walked briskly down the remainder of the stairs, stripping off my mac and shoving it into my side bag. Then I took out my Walkman and wired myself up and pulled the cap down low over my brow. When I got to the bottom of the stairs a few seconds later, I pressed play and got a blast of Serge Gainsbourg in my ears.
Instead of going to the platform, where a train had just pulled in, I turned towards the lifts, acting oblivious to the mob descending nearby. The lift doors opened and I entered with two others and we were soon back to ground level.
I could see two police cars with blue lights flashing waiting outside the station. Bored officers were taking statements from the vendor and the taxi driver. Approaching the exit barriers, I realised I didn’t have a ticket. This time jumping and running wasn’t an option. I switched off my Walkman and holding the left earphone like a small radio mike and cupping my hand around my ear, I walked straight up to the Tube inspector, indicated my cap, and said, “I’m needed out there, mate”. He opened the gate and waved me through.
I stopped on the entrance steps to light a cigarette. Then I slipped the earphone back into my ear and switched on the music. Pulling down my cap, I walked towards the policemen and the taxi driver looking blankly into the distance. They may have said something, I had no idea, all I could hear was Gainsbourg’s Le Poinconneur Des Lilas. Losing myself in the music, I merged seamlessly into the crowd.
* * *
Nearing Chalk Farm, the painkillers kicked in. I’d taken two more on the way back. The Walkman, now playing a friend’s dub reggae mix, was plunging me into deeper, but psychologically safer depths: untouched by the reality that murdered Natasha; unreached by the eyes of my photofit face, looking out at me from the red tops.
I opened the front door and ran up the stairs to my flat. In a bid to look more like an urban Londoner than the Columbine killer, I changed into jeans, a hoodie, an old green baseball cap and trainers. I transferred the contents of my side bag into an old haversack and added a toothbrush, a notebook and a roll of cash that I had hidden in an old shoe. I didn’t trust banks and had deposited my inheritance in various locations about the flat.
I tried to call Marty on my landline but his phone was switched off. I called Dani and told her I was on my way. I opened the back of my mobile phone and took out the battery. Then I left the house and made my way up the street at a trot.
Chapter Four
After a five-year gap, Marty had re-entered my life and in the space of four days I’d had a pub fight, an LSD-spiked coke binge and an unconsummated one-night stand with a soon-to-be-murdered Polish girl. On top of that, the photofit of a murderer fitting my description was on the front page of every newspaper in the country. One could be forgiven for thinking that Marty’s return and this sordid chain of events were not unrelated. I really had to talk to him, but he wasn’t answering his phone and I had no idea where he lived.
I was outside a house near Hackney Central. Dani was upstairs talking to her shaven-headed friends. I was skulking in the garden below. Occasionally, I saw bald-headed faces peering down through the window with the same eyes that had scrutinised me outside the Free Press office two years ago.
After half an hour, Dani came out and walked down the fire escape to the garden. She held up a set of keys and said I could have the basement flat. She’d told me in the park that no-one would think of looking for a male murder suspect in a women’s refuge and I had seen the wisdom in her words, but now I was beginning to doubt it. Didn’t some of these people hate men? And if they saw that photofit, why wouldn’t they turn me in to the police? I contained my urge to run away, and greeted Dani with a smile.
“Just what did you tell them, Dani?”
“That you’re gay and your partner beat you up.”
“And they bought that?”
“Pretty much straight off,” said Dani, her eyes full of mischief.
“I’m glad you can see the funny side of all this.”
“I’m sorry. Just trying to keep your spirits up. C’mon. Let’s get moved in.”
I popped two more painkillers from the packet and swigged them back with a can of beer I’d bought from a corner shop. Dani shoved the key in the door and struggled to turn the lock. Finally, it opened with a click and we went in. There were signs of damp rot, and mouse droppings near the fridge, but it would do. It was secluded and there was a double bed, heavy curtains and clean blankets in the cupboard. Dani volunteered to go to the shops and get in some supplies. Taking out my roll, I gave her a fifty-pound note and requested Spanish wine, brandy and cigarettes.
“Jeez,” she said. “One day, we’ll have to do something about your drinking.”
I wanted to tell her that there is no ‘we’, but I felt my hard-wired independent streak had suddenly reached an impasse. Dani was risking a lot for someone she’d known little more than two years. I didn’t want to offend her or the society of women.
“Let’s face it, Dani,” I joked, “I’m just a mass of urges and impulses, kept in check by nicotine, alcohol and guilt. Take that away and there’d be this huge outpouring of sex and violence.”
Dani looked bemused. She put on her coat and left without saying anything. She came back half an hour later with food, alcohol, cigarettes and candles.
* * *
I had no stomach for food but Dani had insisted on cooking up some pasta on the two-ring hot plate. She told me to eat it and I did my best. We sat on cushions by candlelight. I was hitting the wine quite heavily.
When we’d finished eating, my plate still half full, Dani asked me to tell her the story from the very beginning and not to leave anything out. I started with Thursday night when I met Marty and told her every detail I could remember. When I got to Saturday night, she interrupted me:
“Hang on. You don’t remember getting home Saturday night?”
“All I know is I woke up in my own bed on Sunday afternoon.”
“How often do you have these blackouts?”
“Not exactly blackouts. I don’t remember getting home on Friday night either, but that’s because nothing spectacular happened. It was routine,” I said unconvincingly, fillin
g my glass again.
Dani suddenly looked concerned. I continued with the story until I got to Hampstead Underground and being chased down the stairs.
“You don’t know for sure that anybody recognised you. You were chased because you jumped the barrier.”
“They thought I was the murderer. I began to believe it myself. I saw blood on my hands.”
“That can happen. You can become convinced you’re guilty of something terrible you didn’t do. It’s called false memory syndrome.”
“Even if I imagined it. There’s no surer sign of guilt in the eyes of the law. They will ask: but why did you run if you’ve got nothing to hide? It’s suspect behaviour like not having a mobile phone or complaining about increased airport security.”
“Do you think I’m capable of it?” I added after a pause.
“Everyone’s capable.”
“Should I go to the police?”
“No,” she said. Her face taking on a solemn expression.
“I’m surprised you think that,” I said, slanting my head and lighting another cigarette. The blue-grey fog filled up the space between us. Dani wafted the tobacco cloud away with her hand.
“Lishman, there’s something I have to tell you. Something I had to tell Brent when I started at Free Press.”
I filled up my glass again and leaned back against the sofa to listen as Dani told me her story. At the age of eighteen she’d abandoned her A levels to attend art and photography classes at the local college, waiting tables at night to pay her mother some rent. Her photography impressed her tutor so much he decided she would be better off attending the art school in the city and he arranged for a friend to act as her mentor while she worked on her portfolio. Dani met her mentor once a week at his studio. His name was Michael and he was in his early forties, married with two kids. After a few weeks, it became obvious that Michael, as well as being very impressed with Dani’s photographic eye, was interested in Dani herself. However, Dani, a sensitive and shy teenager, didn’t want to know and blocked out his flirtation. She didn’t want to admit to herself that Michael’s interest was anything other than avuncular or professional.