They headed for Vanbrugh Park and into Charlton Road, the road to Charlton Village and indeed the Cherry Orchard Estate.
"What's your feeling about all this?" asked Cole.
"I don't know," shrugged Michael. What was he supposed to feel? Nervousness? Deep concern? A sense of excitement maybe? Should a rush of adrenaline have jetted around his body, like an out-of-control locomotive? Perhaps he should have felt nothing because he hadn't thought it through enough. He hadn't weighed up the various outcomes to this particular scenario. Michael was an extremely perceptive and intuitive guy. He was cautious, quick-thinking and took in every word he heard and image he saw, analysing information like computer code and more often than not, he made the right choice every single time. However, it was guaranteed to be one of those times where Michael wasn't perceptive or intuitive. What on Earth did he think? Nothing. Nothing at all.
"Is everything all right?" asked Jo.
"Huh? Me? Yes, fine. Why d'you ask?"
"Eh up, gang alert," interrupted Cole, as the car passed a group of twelve or so black youths standing on a corner or sitting on a wall.
The youths were hooded and of West African origin. Darkly dressed with hints of red, whether it was their footwear, a bandana, a baseball cap, an armband, a trace of a t-shirt or a rag dangling out of the back pocket of their baggy pants.
The car passed them and the youths eyeballed it.
One of them even had a facemask, covering the lower half of his face. He looked like a cast member of GI Joe. Ice hockey-style, black plastic, with a skeleton feel.
Through tinted glass, on the back seat, Michael stared at each of the youths.
"It's da Feds, man," noted one youth, staring at the car.
"Yeah, boy two, boy two," responded another.
"Fuck dat shit and fuck dem pussies. What they gonna do? What? What joo want?" called out a third.
"Shit!" Cole slammed on the brakes real hard. The car suddenly screeched to an abrupt halt.
Michael jerked forward. His head and shoulders moved into the front part of the car. He stopped himself, grasping the passenger seat head-rest.
Crowe jolted and looked at Michael and smiled.
"The bloody nerve of them," frowned Cole, looking ahead through the windscreen at another hooded black youth crossing the street in front of the car, eating from a box of deep fried chicken and without a care, flinging chicken skin to the ground.
The youth bopped to the pavement and looked at the gang assembled around the wall.
"It's da Feds, blud!" called the first youth, as the chicken eater approached.
"Joo eatin ma fuckin chicken, bitch?" yelled the second youth, as chicken eater turned his head to glance at the car. It was then that his eyes locked onto Michael's eyes, staring back at him through Crowe's passenger side window.
"What the fuck!" cried the chicken eater. His jaw dropped. A piece of chicken skin stuck to his bottom lip as he stared.
Michael struggled and pushed himself backwards. His heart raced at full speed. He swallowed and breathed heavy, in and out, in and out.
Crowe turned around and smirked at him, with his grin, fast becoming a frown. "Don't worry, mate. The next one, we'll make sure we knock him down, eh?"
"Is he okay?" asked Cole, who looked up.
"Michael?" Jo said.
On the street corner, with the youths, was an equal cause for concern.
"What joo lookin' at?" replied the angriest and most vocal member of the gang. He took the box of fried chicken from the chicken eater.
"Yo. TT. Tiny Taser, what the fuck, man?"
Tiny Taser, the chicken eater, was of course a Tiny, as his gang name suggested. It meant that there was also somebody out there called Young Taser and an 'Elder' gang member, who, if going by the so-called rule of thumb in gang member name-tags, was an original gang member called simply Taser. However, at that particular moment in space and time, the only person to be focused on with the Taser name was Tiny Taser, the carefree young man who crossed the main road without looking to see if it was safe, casually eating his extremely greasy and over-fried chicken. The young man who discarded chicken skin and caused an oncoming car to stop suddenly, making its passengers jerk forward.
That main passenger in question was Michael, a man who counselled and mentored vulnerable and at risk young children. A man who was paid to be an undercover informant for the Metropolitan Police Service. A man who was previously shielded by the tinted glass of the back seat of an undercover, unmarked police vehicle, but who had just been jolted forward and was seen by Tiny Taser, a gang member whose real name was Sinatra Umbundo: Michael's student.
Sinatra 'Tiny Taser" Umbundo turned his head, keeping his confused eyes locked like laser sights on Michael, as the unmarked police vehicle started to move once more.
"That was my teacher, blud," commented Sinatra.
"What the fuck you talking about?" spouted one of the crew.
"With the Feds. In the car. That was my fucking teacher, man. I swear down. I ain't lying to you. I see dat face every day, blud," Sinatra continued.
"Why is he widda cops?"
"I don't fuckin' know." Sinatra was flustered.
"Joo fink he's a pig, too?"
"Nah, blud. He's safe. You get me? Well, I thought he was. Shit. Why him? He's actually all right, you know. It probably ain't nuffin, you get me, yeah?" Sinatra said, trying to relax himself.
"Probably nuttin'! Don't fuckin' believe it, blud. You're a bitch, Taser, man. What's wiv your head? He's a Fed. You know it! Day put dem in schools, man, to fuck wijoo. Be your friend. Spy onjoo anshit. He ain't no friend, guy, I'm telling you. I swear down." The angrier youth tried and succeeded in convincing Sinatra.
Michael tilted his head, thinking. He stuck his tongue firmly inside his mouth, which filled out his cheeks and gums. He looked up to the rear view mirror at the undercover police detective driving the car, then turned to the undercover police detective in the passenger seat. He looked at the undercover police detective next to him on the back seat. They were all looking at him.
"Are you OK?" asked Detective Jo Blake. "You look a little awkward."
"I feel awkward," Michael replied.
"What's up, matey?" asked Crowe.
"One of the kids on the corner. I think he saw me," said Michael, watching Crowe glance into his wing mirror, watching the youths becoming more and more distant.
"Don't worry too much. We'll radio a car to search them. That'll take the focus off from them seeing you," chuckled Cole, as he drove on.
"No, no it won't," snapped Michael. "It'll only crank up the focus. The kid who saw me is one of the kids at the school. I see him every day."
Cole glanced at Crowe and caught Jo's eye in the mirror. He nodded at her and she turned to Michael, placing a familiar, gentle and slender hand upon his. Was that for reassurance, an unwritten rule, protocol or a game-plan?
Michael looked at her hand on his and then at her face.
Her eyes were filled with genuine empathy and concern for his wellbeing. Her hand was actually placed discreetly out of her colleagues' view.
Michael also knew this.
"It'll be OK. If you want to call it a night, just say and we'll take you home. Also remember back to when you first signed on board; if it gets too heated for you, then you call us and we'll take you to the safe place that was agreed. Well away from places you're familiar with," she held her look on him.
Cole had a satisfied expression on his face as he turned into another street.
Crowe glanced up the streets.
Michael looked at Jo's hand on his again. "Drive on. I'm OK."
"Good stuff," replied Crowe, in his soft Scottish tone. "If you feel confident enough, maybe you can head out for a walk."
"I don't think that's-" Jo blurted.
"Where'd you think? Woolwich town centre?" Cole interrupted.
"Good a place as any," smirked Crowe. "You got your radio, haven't you, Jo?" He swivelled
in his seat to look at his uneasy, female colleague.
Woolwich town centre was a hole. Literally. There was building work all over the place. Outside the Docklands Light Railway entrance and opposite the Woolwich Arsenal railway station. Potholes, filled with muddy puddles, dotted the uneven road near the market accompanied by the eerie presence of unsavoury eyes, watching your every move.
Footsteps echoed down the street as Jo and Michael walked side by side. Close, like a couple.
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael looked at Jo. He coughed, clearing his throat.
"D'you come here often?" he said.
Jo double-glanced at him as she caught his smirk. She formed an awkward smile. "It is grim, isn't it?"
"Just a bit," replied Michael.
"So how long have you been working with these types of kids?" she asked.
"At this particular place, about five years," Michael said, watching his step.
"How about before this particular place?" she probed.
"That was a whole bunch of different children altogether. Autistic children, wheelchair users, Downs."
"Down where?" asked Jo.
Michael frowned, wondering, briefly, if she was humouring him or not.
She awaited his answer.
"Downs Syndrome," Michael replied.
"Oh. Right," Jo obviously wasn't humouring him at all. She took this bite-sized piece of caring information about Michael, processed it quickly in her mind and gave him a satisfying and pleasant smile in return.
Their eyes locked momentarily, just for a split second, before she turned ahead, shoving her hands inside her pockets, making her frame a little tight.
"Did you enjoy it? Working with disabled kids, I mean?" Jo had a disabled mother and thought about her in that precious moment. She had only ever seen her mother in a wheelchair. The years of being confined to it had taken their toll and when seen out shopping by school classmates, they used to think Jo's mother was actually her grandmother. Jo would go along with that as it would have been too much hassle and unnecessary stress to explain the truth to them.
"I did, yeah. It was a lot of fun for not a lot of money," said Michael.
"Not like where you are now, I suppose."
"Well, not quite. I didn't leave because of just that. There were a few factors really. I loved working with them. They were happy children. Innocent children. So many stories there. One autistic boy was obsessed with his own reflection," Michael recounted, with a fond smile.
"What, like mirrors?" asked Jo, frowning again.
"Mirrors, windows, cutlery. He'd stare into whatever it was that reflected his face or body and point at his reflection. 'Don't tread on the flowerbed or I'll take your PlayStation away,' Michael put on a different voice as he reminisced about a more recent, pleasant and enjoyable past, imitating the autistic boy he once taught.
Jo didn't really get it, but smiled nonetheless. "He sounds a little like Rain Man," she said.
"When I first met this boy, he pointed at me and said 'You look like that man.' I asked him what man he meant. 'The man from the chip shop,' he said. 'When was this?' I asked. 'In the chip shop, in 1997,' he said. I wasn't in the chip shop in 1997 to my knowledge, but you never know," Michael recounted.
"Maybe you were. He could replace forensic evidence," smiled Jo, breaking an attempt at humour and relaxing somewhat.
Michael smiled and the two looked at one another. There was a definite attraction, however it was probably more to do with the angst he secretly felt and the comfort he found being with Jo. It was warmer and more genuine than just receiving banter from the male detectives.
Jo was a pretty young woman. Her fresh, immaculate skin was pale, with rosy cheeks, like scorched pads of scarlet paint on her face, due to the cold weather that night. Her dark hair occasionally fell down her face to cover one eye which she tried to blow off with a huff of breath every so often.
"What do you think when you tell us about the violent children you're dealing with?" she asked him, curiously.
"I think very hard about whether it's the right thing to do and know that I've helped take a lot of violent children off the streets, not to mention a lot of knives and guns," Michael continued. "It might just also be the swift, hard kick they need to make them realise there's another way. Another path."
"Tough love. Do you think you'll ever report an innocent person to us?" Jo enquired.
"What, by mistake?"
"Yes."
"If I did it by mistake, then hopefully you guys would be professional enough to have checked out the innocent mistake and so it'll end up OK in the end," he said, without hesitation.
Jo was satisfied by this and the two continued to walk in the darkly lit street.
They saw a row of ATMs against a wall, and standing between each of these cash machines, as people queued to withdraw their money, were four uniformed police officers in their yellow, high visibility jackets.
"Look at that!" Michael said, surprised at the sight of these illuminated money guards.
Jo looked to where Michael gestured. "That's Woolwich for you. You don't come here a lot then," she said with a smile.
"Never. When I was young, perhaps five or six, Mum would bring me here. There was a great fruit and veg market back then and an even better toy shop for me. I'd only ever want to look at the boxes the toys were packaged in and be satisfied with that. We'd leave the shop and my mum would head back in and buy me the toy I'd been staring at. I never wanted for anything, but she said I never complained or cried or moaned, so she treated me."
"What was the toy?" Jo asked.
"Usually a He-Man figure or something like that.
"Oh, before my time I think," she remarked.
"What, you weren't around when He-Man and Fisto were having it large in the forests of Eternia?" Michael grinned.
"Er, no, I certainly was not. The only toy called Fisto I know of is probably found in a shop in Soho or something," Jo quipped.
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"That didn't sound the way I wanted it to," Jo was embarrassed.
"I know what you meant," Michael smirked.
"No, you didn't," Jo held back the smirking, curling corners of her mouth.
"I'm wondering what you would have said if I mentioned other He-Man figures like Spikor, Ram-Man or Faker."
"Oh shut up. Stop taking the piss. Besides, I know you're making those names up now." Jo relaxed with each word and footstep.
"I'm not! They're real. They're as real as Tung Lashor, Mantenna and Whiplash. Trust me, I had them all," Michael said, almost quite passionately, with nostalgic fondness.
"The names sound quite perverted," stated Jo.
"Perhaps now, but not when you're a child."
"So who was He-Man's nemesis? Pervertor?" Jo mocked.
"Ha. Funny. Skeletor, actually. That was until the evil Horde arrived and a new line of toys and cartoon characters besieged the toyshops. Hordak became the main villain then."
"Whore Dak? Oh honestly!" cried Jo. She shook her head.
"Not whore as in a street walker prostitute. Hor. H O R. Hordak. He was Skeletor's old master," corrected Michael.
"And I suppose the man called Mantenna had a retractable penis or something," replied Jo, smugly, still believing that Michael had made up all these characters.
"No! Mantenna fired stun beams from his extended eyes, but was also a comedic character. He'd stutter a lot, too."
Jo closed her eyes briefly, taking it all in. She gritted her teeth, tossed her hair back and turned to Michael.
"Oh my God, you're actually telling the truth."
"Of course I am!"
"About Hordak and all the others?"
"Yes."
"Shit. And I went and spouted off about Antenna Dick," Jo blurted. She was hugely embarrassed.
"As well as mentioning your Fisto toy from Ann Summers in Soho," joked Michael.
"I didn't say I got one in Ann Sum
mers, I said a shop in Soho!" Jo defended herself, pointing her forefinger at Michael.
"You actually have one!"
"No! No! Oh my God. Shut up. Shut up," she laughed, slapping his arm.
He gently barged her.
Jo barged him back with a nudging shoulder.
He leaned in as she tried again, sending her slightly off balance.
Jo stopped and looked at him.
They both smiled.
"That's assault," she said. She exhaled her visible breath into the cold night air.
Michael sneered and held his look.
She stepped up to him, closer, just a few inches away from one another.
"Are you assaulting a police officer?" She had a serious expression, reminiscent of a 1940s femme fatale. She looked Michael up and down.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at her, taking a brief glance around his surroundings.
They were in a quiet, darkly lit side street. Nobody was around.
He scoffed again, covering his awkwardness. He puffed his own warm breath into the cold, dark of the night.
"I've got your number, mister," she said, with a devilish smirk.
Michael frowned when suddenly the familiar Nokia ring-tone sounded out from Jo's pocket.
"Saved by the bell," she said, as she retrieved the phone and brought it to her ear.
"Where are you two lovebirds at then?" came the distinct Scottish tone of DC Crowe on the other end of the mobile phone.
"We'll make our way to the station. Pick us up there," Jo said, bluntly. She beeped out and replaced the phone, looking up at Michael. "Did you hear him?" she asked.
"No, lovebird, what did he say?" Michael replied.
"Nothing. Come on. I know a shortcut." Jo led them both down another street.
Michael followed her lead and stopped in his stride, pausing to think of Rebecca. This wasn't him. He was a stand-up guy. Friendly banter, sure, but he wasn't an outright flirt. This role was starting to change him. He liked the money he was receiving as well as the wrongs he felt he was righting. He watched Jo walk ahead, glanced around his surroundings briefly and began to consider bringing it all to a halt.
Sinatra Umbundo, also known as Taser, tightened his hood as he walked briskly down a street in the still of the night. Looking worried and feeling disappointed, angry and betrayed, Sinatra crossed into another street and bowed his head. His eyes rolled upwards into their sockets, enabling him to see two shadowed figures ahead grouped by a streetlight.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 12