"Hiya. Am I disturbing you? I was just passing," said Norman. He always happened to be simply 'just passing' Patricia's office. His gangly frame lingered awkwardly in the doorway.
Patricia giggled like a nervous schoolgirl and slid a piece of A4 from the file to Michael.
Michael eyed it over and started to read about the Angolan Sinatra Umbundo. He sighed an exhausted breath, having read many a similar story before. However, each one tugged his heartstrings, disappointing him time and time again.
6. THE UNDERCOVER
Michael drove his car along an uneven, unmade road with potholes and weeds. His tyres churned up dust as the vehicle scrolled along with a rolling crunch. Fields either side of the road; a cornfield on the left and a neatly fenced-off section, with a couple of horses, grazing free. He passed stables, hit a stretch of tarmac and passed an enormous mansion. It was slightly obscured by trees with branches that dangled over the road. Large homes, each different in style and size.
Michael rounded a corner and drove over concrete humps in the road. Patches of tarmac outside the larger homes, dusty gravel outside others. The humps were meant to slow cars down, despite the owners of such homes being the ones who sped along the private road in their oversized jeeps and their wild and untamed children the ones hurtling out of control upon their quad bikes or scramblers.
Michael passed a slightly overweight man in his mid-forties. His face showed depression. His body hunched over and his feet shuffled along in his baggy blue tracksuit bottoms and lightweight jacket. He was white and his thinning hair danced upon his head in the breeze as he walked a black and white cross-breed dog of some sort. The man was Simon and he nodded his head to acknowledge Michael as he drove along, leaving him in a cloud of dust.
Upon the driveway of a small bungalow was a man in his mid-sixties. A kind, white face with silver hair. The man was six feet tall and that day wore a pair of army green shorts and a lighter green polo shirt. On his feet was a pair of slippers. He opened a metal gate as Michael drove his car up the drive and pulled to a stop.
Michael cut his engine and exited the car to greet the man, his father Edward Thompson, with a kiss and a hug.
"Hello Mikey. Good to see you. Leave the keys in. I'll turn the car around for you. Go in and see Mum. She's probably got a big load of fruit for you to eat."
Michael's dad took the car keys from him and clambered inside, as Michael rounded the vehicle and entered the house. Edward tutted as he retrieved a white handkerchief from his pocket and spat on it. He wiped it on the dirty, dusty and oddly sticky dashboard, freeing it from whatever it was that was on the surface. He smiled, fondly recalling a vivid memory of when his son was five years old, sitting at a kitchen table of long ago, painting a picture whilst eating a peeled pear; slippery, juicy and sticky.
"Hello, Mum? Hello?" Michael called out as he took his shoes off, entering the living room. He found his mother, kneeling upon a brown leather Chesterfield sofa.
"Oh, hello Mike. Ah. Ooh. Help. I've got pins and needles now."
"Are you okay, Mum?" Michael frowned as his mother awkwardly twisted and maneuvered herself off the sofa and hobbled over to hug her son. Her left hand grasped a yellow dusting cloth.
"Oh, sorry, son," she kissed his cheek and took a step backwards. "I'll get you something to eat."
"No, I'm OK," he responded, reluctantly.
His mother winced as she arched her back, straightening. "Aw eh. My bones," she laughed. "Sorry, I'm getting old, Mikey."
"Getting?" he teased as she grasped his shoulder and passed him, laughing again and leaving the room.
His mother, Violet, a sixty-three-year-old woman of Irish descent, looked at her youngest son lovingly. Being so patient, trusted and affectionate, she adored him the most and he was forever her child, no matter how old he was.
Upon the three-seater Chesterfield, Michael sipped his gigantic cup of hot chocolate. The white china cup was huge and bowl-like. Upon a plate, on the wooden coffee table and wrapped up in two sheets of kitchen paper, were two pains au chocolat - chocolate croissants to Michael and many others.
Edward sat upon the two-seater sofa nearby. "I spoke to Simon, the detective, outside a minute ago. He was walking three of his dogs."
"How many dogs does he have?" asked Michael.
"Five," answered his father. "He's really interested in your work and the types of children you have there. He said he'd be back in half an hour if you'd like to knock on his door and talk to him."
"What does he want to know?" Michael unwrapped the croissants and took a bite of one.
His father removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and looked at his son. "He's interested in gang members. He said the amount of gangs and teenagers killing each other is really worrying him. He's just been assigned a new team and I told him about the types of children at your school. It's worth talking to him. You'll get money for it."
"Money for what?" Michael asked, frowning.
"For any information you give him," his father, Edward, replied.
"Like what?"
"You could start paying off your bills with the amount of information you have on those pupils."
"What, I'd be an informant?" Michael formed a slight smirk.
His father smiled at his son.
"Like a super-grass?"
"Well, best if you speak with him first and see what he has to say," his father replied.
He always wanted to help his son out whenever he could, especially when it regarded some extra money, and if the deed caught a few criminals along the way, then that was surely a plus in his book. And his book was certainly a unique one.
Michael nodded and chomped another bite of his croissant as his mother re-entered the room. She perched on the wooden coffee table. "How's Rebecca and her job? Are they still being horrible to her?" she asked Michael.
"Mmm. Yeah. Utterly," he said, with his mouth full. "The Botox-faced boss makes her cry every other day. Bec calls me at work crying her eyes out. Get this: the other day, everyone in the office was given special beauty treatment, manicures and facials except for Bec. How mean is that?"
"Oh that's awful!" said his mother.
"I know. She's treated like a schoolgirl."
"Why? I don't understand. What does she do to deserve such harsh treatment?"
"Nothing. That's the thing. She does more than she's required to do and she's treated and paid the worst. Last week she was flavour of the month, with Botox woman emailing her across the room to say she's received good words regarding Becca and how professional she is, but this week, it's the complete reverse."
"Sounds like the woman is bi-polar or something," chipped in his father. "Poor girl."
"She ought to get out of there," said his mother.
"If she can," said Edward.
"She's been looking and applying for anything and everything. She will," Michael responded, positively.
His parents loved Rebecca as if she were their own daughter. His mother was especially pleased for Michael to have such a wonderful girlfriend, as she cared for him so lovingly and cooked amazingly.
Violet even dreamt of Rebecca's cooking, that was how much she liked her food. Both Violet and Edward were equally relaxed and happy that Michael was happy and had finally found somebody who put as much effort and energy and love into a relationship as he did.
"Has Bec read The Secret?" she asked.
"Ha! I've read various bits of it to her and have written some of her wants and goals in the Gratitude book you bought me."
"Does anyone know of it at her work?"
"Mm, yeah, but they think it's something you simply do; a quick fix to things as opposed to a practice or way of life and constant thought," Michael said, food in his mouth once again.
"How do you mean?" his mother asked, curiously.
"Like, 'Oh, we should do The Secret on that client' someone will say in her office. As if it was a magic spell or something. Grr. I can't stand them. They're all a bunch of A
b-Fab wannabe, Botox-filled, bloated-faced fakes. There's no loyalty in that place at all." Michael was passionate about his girlfriend, Rebecca. It frustrated him that she was unhappy in her workplace.
Rebecca was somewhat envious of Michael and the varied days he had at his job and the closeness of his staff team.
He thought about the types of students he had. His mind raced with a thousand and one thoughts. Becca disliked her job so much and if she suddenly left and handed her notice in, how would they pay their rent and other bills? Would being a police informant be of any benefit to him? To them? Could it be easy to simply tell on the teenagers at his work to the police? What would they want to know? What did he know about them anyway?
Simon was a slightly overweight white man in his mid-forties. His greying blond hair was thin and wavy and his appearance implied a man depressed and deep in thought. This was the man Michael had seen as he drove by. He walked bow-legged up the driveway to Michael's parents' home as Michael exited the house. Only the metal gate separated the two of them.
"I was just on my way to you," Michael smiled, extending his hand to shake Simon's over the gate.
The mournful-looking Simon formed an awkward half-smile. He was unsure how to initiate the conversation, looking around the driveway and everywhere else but Michael's face.
"I spoke to your Dad earlier and he said you have a lot of contact with gang members. I've got a... a special unit. A new team under my control. It's quite a secretive division. It's just a very difficult and hard task to achieve anything with any positive outcome," he rambled.
"With regards to...?" asked Michael, curiously.
"The gangs of south-east London," answered Simon, looking him in the eye for the first time.
Simon was a Detective Chief Inspector. Worn out and exhausted before his actual age commanded it to be so. Stressed out because of his job and the amount of pet dogs he and his wife had. His wife was rarely sighted, let alone seen walking the pets at all.
"There are so many guns in Thamesmead. So many automatic weapons. It's alarming. The shootings are kept out of the press, but we can't keep them out forever."
"So, what would you like from me?" Michael asked.
"I don't know until I hear what you can tell me about the types of kids you have," Simon stated.
Michael nodded his head, thinking seriously. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Simon.
"It's daily. Pretty much. T-Blok, Cherry Boys, Woolwich Boys, the stereotypical chavy racist attackers from Bexleyheath."
"The RA. We've got them all watched," Simon said.
Michael rested one arm upon the gate and assumed a more solemn expression.
"I've dealt with children who have been charged for rape, attempted murder, sexual assaults, ABH and GBH. One boy, the other week, came in with stab wounds all over his head."
"Interesting. So, would you be willing to meet some colleagues of mine in the week at all?" Simon asked.
"Sure," said Michael, positively.
"You'll be paid for any information you tell them that can be used in evidence against somebody you identify, but it has to be signed over. It's not like it was in your dad's days, where it was meeting somebody in a pub and they handed over an envelope full of cash. It has to be all recorded now. It's all quite official," Simon stated again.
Michael nodded his head. He understood.
At their top-floor conversion flat within a terrace town house in Luxor Street, Michael and Rebecca slouched on the L-shaped sofa, watching Jamie Oliver on their oversized Sony television. They sipped glasses of an Australian Pinot Noir. Always red. They loved their wine. The colours, the aromas and, of course, the taste.
Michael would dip his nose into the glass and breathe in the scent, as if he was about to duck underwater.
"Raspberry, vanilla, no licorice; maybe even cola."
Rebecca often scrunched up her nose and curled her lip. "Cola? Just smells like wine."
Michael told her he gained his wine knowledge when, in his youth, he'd worked in the beers, wines and spirits department at a local supermarket.
Rebecca believed he'd gained what he knew about wine by simply watching the movie Sideways and winging it, like everybody else.
Michael dabbed a sheet of kitchen towel against Rebecca's cheek, wiping a tear away.
"I just don't know what I have to do in order to please her anymore," she sniffed.
"She's a nutcase, Becca. You're so professional and she's not worth a single tear of yours, so don't cry, baby. I bet tomorrow will be completely different for you and she'll be singing your praises again," Michael reassured her.
"I doubt that. I'm sorry you have to see me crying when you come home and hear how crap my job is all the time. How was your day, Mikey?" she asked, as she placed her glass of wine on the black Ikea coffee table and snuggled into his arms.
"It was a little weird. The usual at work. A complete psycho kicking off. This Iranian man-boy."
"Did you see your mum and dad?"
"Yeah. You know they have a neighbour, next door but one, who's a detective?"
"No, but carry on," replied Rebecca, hurrying him up.
"Well, there's this detective couple next door but one from Mum and Dad and they got talking to him the other day and told him I dealt with a bunch of gang kids."
"And he knows the gang kids you teach?"
"Not really. Well, maybe, I don't know. Perhaps. But he wants me to meet up with his undercover guys and discuss stuff. They've set up this new undercover police gang unit near where I work and are out of their depth. They underestimated the amount of kids with knives and guns in the area where the school is and, well, it's worth meeting up with them."
"When?" Rebecca asked.
"I don't know. Could be tomorrow. Sometime this week anyway."
"Is there any money in it for you?"
"Yeah, but I don't know how much. It all depends on what information I give them, I suppose. I'll find out more when I meet up with them," Michael replied.
"I'd like a Jamie Oliver book for my birthday," Rebecca randomly stated, as she reverted to watching the television.
"Which one? He has so many," Michael asked.
"Not the American one or the garden one. Something traditional."
"Does he have a traditional cook book?"
"He must do." She finished her wine and settled the glass down, lightly prodding the stem with her fingertips, pushing it away from the edge. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
"That was a mega yawn," Michael observed.
Rebecca grasped his face gently, kissed his nose, and released it again.
"And that was a warm, yawn hand on my face," he continued.
She grinned a beautiful smile.
"Oh, no," he said.
"What?" asked Rebecca, as she looked at his suddenly disappointed expression.
He quickly pulled up her top to expose her stomach, nestled his face into her belly button and blew a big, squidgy sounding raspberry, lasting four or five seconds. He covered her stomach up and exhaled.
"It's a condition. It comes and goes. It could have been worse," he said.
"Yeah, it could have been your belly. All fluffy and hairy," she yawned again, arching her neck slightly.
"Right, Monkey Pants. Shall we do bedtime?" Michael asked.
"Mm, I'm tired. Been a stressy day," she replied. "Race you to the bathroom."
Rebecca rolled off the sofa and conducted a trot-like walk to the bathroom.
Michael smiled, collected the TV remote control and zapped it onto Sky News.
The Sony television was an oversized beast of technology. Black and silver and as sturdy as an ox. A motionless, frozen, black and silver metal and plastic, electrical ox. Carrying that beast up to their flat was backbreaking hell. Michael's mind recounted that very day whenever he looked at that TV. He smiled. The memory exhausted him.
Rebecca had stood at the top of the carpeted stairs, looking on in a
combined state of amazed horror and concern at a hunched Michael, with his claw-like hands practically becoming one with the side of the television set. His blue eyes had bulged at the weight, clearly evident upon his reddening, sweaty face. Michael remembered the shady Rastafarian man who'd assisted him from the car to the hallway, but gave up far too quickly. He was clearly deceived by the Rasta's bulky frame and glistening Reebok tracksuit and spotlessly clean Reebok Classics trainers. Obviously unqualified in the carrying of ridiculously heavy television sets. Michael set about, frantically out of breath, knocking on his new neighbours' doors. The only one to answer was none other than Gay Gary, an even slighter-framed and whiter-skinned man than Michael.
Gay Gary lived a floor below Rebecca and Michael and was extremely pleased to meet and assist his new neighbours, at least until he cast his eyes upon the mass of television blocking the communal hallway door.
Together Gay Gary and Michael had heaved the electronic bulk up four flights of carpeted stairs, through their front door, to their flat and up another set of stairs into their loft conversion, positioning it in the corner of the living area, where it had remained for a further four years.
A TV news report featured Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. There was a discussion on the terrorist groups that Iran supported, including Hezbollah and Lebanese Shiite militants, as well as Palestinian Islamic Jihad and Hamas.
An expert spoke on the various organisations and revealed some minor facts that stimulated Michael momentarily. He revealed the following: Hezbollah is Arabic and means "Party of God". Primarily based in Lebanon, they are a paramilitary Shi'a Islamist organisation. Some stated supporters of the late Lebanese Shiite resistance leader Sheikh Ragheb Harb to be the founders of Hezbollah. Ragheb Harb was killed by the Israelis on February 16th 1984.
Michael yawned and stood up from the sofa. He turned off the television and closed his Mac Book down. On his way to the fridge freezer, he opened the door and fumbled inside the lower drawer to retrieve an orange plastic Sainsbury's carrier bag, placing it upon the side. Michael filled the kettle and switched off the light, making his way into the bathroom where he stared at his reflection. He tweezed out an in-growing hair from his neck, just below his jaw line. The metal point of the tweezers scrolled over his delicate skin gently, but drew blood. His thumb smeared the blood down his neck. Michael continued to lightly scrape the tip of his instrument over and over until he caught his prize; hooking the black hair from under his skin. It dangled like a piece of cotton thread. Michael pinched his thumb and forefinger and pulled the hair tight, slowly dragging it from within its blood-filled comfort zone of a home. Michael inspected the hair held in the metallic clasp of the tweezers. He was somewhat proud as he eyed it, like a fisherman and their grand catch of the day. Beauty! He looked into the mirror at his messy, bloodstained face. A reddish brown streak of faint dried blood was smeared from his jaw and down one side of his neck.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 6