Acid Row

by Minette Walters

  Plans had been made at the beginning of the week to converge on Humbert Street that Saturday afternoon and force the police to move the perverts out, though there was considerable irritation that Portisfield hadn’t had to do anything so dramatic . . . or energetic. It highlighted the difference between the way the two estates were perceived – the one modern and upwardly mobile, the other a dilapidated ghetto for the underclass. The upwardly mobile complained. The underclass marched.

  Naturally no one in Bassindale bothered to inform the police of their plan. The idea was to shock the pigs into removing the nonces, not give them a chance to order the march banned and arrest anyone who tried to go through with it. In any case, so many of the Acid Row youngsters were serving weekend community sentences that, if the rozzers got a sniff of trouble, half the foot soldiers would be lost because they’d be banged up in secure detention till the trouble passed. It was a protest of numbers. The more there were, the more powerful the message . . . and the less likely it was to be ignored.

  With some justification, Gaynor and Melanie prided themselves on being the leaders. It was they who had brought the perverts to the community’s attention. Their resolution that had fired a reciprocal commitment from their neighbours. Their efforts that had translated ideas into action. Also their motivation was entirely unselfish. They believed the council was endangering children by introducing paedophiles into the estate. It was an open-and-shut case. Force the authorities to get rid of the perverts and the kids would be safe.

  What they lacked was imagination, for it never occurred to them that their leadership would be secretly hijacked nor that a protest march could lead to war. Certainly not in broad daylight on one of the hottest days of the year.

  But, as the police could have told them, riots only happen when heat frays tempers.

  This Saturday, on the bench outside the Co-op, Melanie was bringing her mother up to speed on where and when the protesters were meeting that afternoon. ‘It’s mostly women and kids,’ she said, ‘but I reckon there’s going to be about a hundred and that’s enough to make the rozzers sit up and think. Jimmy’ll be there too, and, as long as you and me get there first to keep a bit of order, it ought to work well.’ She could see that Gaynor was listening with only half an ear. ‘This is important, Mum,’ she said severely. ‘If you and me aren’t outside the school in time to organize the sodding thing, then it’ll fizzle out. You know what they’re like round here. They’ll vanish off to the pub if there’s no one to tell ’em what to do.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there, darlin’.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is, I’m worried about our Colin. That Wesley Barber’s been hanging around again and Col knows I can’t stand him.’

  ‘Jimmy hates him, too . . . calls him a retard . . . says he gives niggers a bad name ’cos he’s stoned all the time on crystal meth. You wanna put your foot down, Ma. Jimmy reckons he’s dropping acid as well, and if Col gets into that, he’s gonna be real fucked up.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Gaynor ran a worried hand through her hair. ‘What am I supposed to do, darlin’? He was out till three this morning with that little tyke Kevin Charteris. They’re up to something and I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘What they usually do on a Friday night,’ said Melanie. ‘Go clubbing and get smashed. Kev’s not as bad as Wesley.’

  Gaynor shook her head. ‘Col was dead cold sober. I was that mad I waited up for him – he knows he’ll get detention if he’s caught thieving again – but he wouldn’t say where he’d been . . . just fired off and said I was a nagging bitch.’

  Melanie thought of her fourteen-year-old brother. ‘Maybe he was getting laid,’ she said with a giggle. ‘That’s not something a bloke’d share with his mum.’

  But there was no answering laughter from Gaynor. ‘I reckon it’s joyriding,’ she said unhappily. ‘He smelt of petrol, so he must’ve been in a car. I gave him a right tongue-bashing . . . told him he’d kill hisself one of these days . . . or be killed . . . and he slammed into his room and told me to mind my own fucking business.’

  ‘Maybe I should talk to him.’

  ‘Would you, darlin’? You know he listens to you. Just tell him I don’t want him dead . . . I’d rather see him in the nick than wrapped round a lamppost. At least that way he’s got a chance of growing up and making something of hisself.’

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ Melanie promised, ‘soon as we’re shot of the perverts.’

  Pinder Street, Bassindale Estate

  WPC Hanson could hardly fail to notice the graffiti as she turned into Pinder Street. It was sprayed on to a blank wall at the end of the terrace in fluorescent yellows and pinks – ‘Death to Pigs’ – and underneath was a cartoon representation of jointed trotters crossed in a Nazi swastika. It hadn’t been there the day before and she forced herself to view it with detachment. It couldn’t possibly be aimed at her.

  She drew up outside number 121 and climbed out to have another crack at interviewing fifteen-year-old Wesley Barber about a snatch-and-run in the centre of town. It was a long shot. His MO fitted perfectly – the target was an old woman coming out of the side door of the post office with her wallet, stuffed with her pension money, in her hand – but the witness’s description, ‘a beastly great black boy with staring eyes’, wouldn’t convince a magistrate that sweet-faced Wesley was the culprit.

  The boy was educationally subnormal – a juvenile psychopath on acid and meth, according to his headteacher, who turned a blind eye to his truanting in order to keep him out of school – but he had the face of a saint. Everyone despaired of him, including his mother, who spent most of her time on her knees in church, praying for a miracle. Also, he was never at home when the police came knocking, so the chances of the interview happening were poor.

  Hanson heard yelling from the end of the street and looked up to see a gang of youths appear round the corner, wrestling with each other and hurling insults. She dropped her gaze hurriedly, afraid of sparking a confrontation, but the boys beat a hasty retreat when they spotted the police car. Even so, one of them shouted loudly enough for her to catch: ‘It’s a tart on her own, for fuck’s sake. We could take her easy.’

  She put a hand on the car door to steady herself and stared purposefully after the gang as if she were weighing options. She was terrified of Acid Row and always had been. She likened it to being afraid of dogs. You could follow all the rules about how to behave, but if fear was the only emotion you experienced then fear was what the animals sensed. She’d tried to explain this once to her boss, and he’d slated her for it.

  ‘You’ll be spending more time on the Row than anywhere else,’ he told her. ‘It’s the nature of the job. If you can’t hack it, then you’d better quit now, because I’ll have your hide if you ever refer to those people as “animals” again.’

  She hadn’t meant it that way. She used fear of dogs as an analogy, but her boss couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. She needed help, and the only help he gave her was to make her face her phobia every day. In three months she’d spent so much time alone on the Row that her fear had intensified into paranoia. She believed she was followed and watched every time she came here. She believed the youths hunted in packs with the specific intention of catching her unawares and unprotected. She also believed, like a typical paranoiac, that her boss was behind the conspiracy to destroy her. He always sent her out alone . . .

  ‘There’s that woman copper again,’ said Wesley’s mother, peering through the net curtains. ‘Are you going to talk to her this time?’

  She knew he’d done something bad. She could always tell. Despite all her prayers, she knew in her heart there was no salvation for her son. The pastor had told her he was on drugs, but she didn’t believe that. It was the Evil One had hold of Wesley, just as He had hold of Wesley’s father.

  ‘No chance. She’s trying to pin a mugging on me.’

  Mrs Barber glared at her son. ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘ ’Course I didn’t,’ he said
plaintively.

  ‘You little liar,’ she said, smacking him across the head with a meaty hand. ‘How many times’ve I warned you? Next time you snatch an old lady’s money, I’ll chase you through the streets myself.’

  ‘Leave off,’ he howled. ‘It weren’t me, Mum. Why can’t you never believe me?’

  ‘Because you’re your father’s son,’ she said in disgust, turning back to the window and watching WPC Hanson’s knuckles turn white from her grip on the car door. ‘She looks scared,’ she murmured. ‘Are you and your friends up to something? What was all that shouting?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he lied, tiptoeing towards the corridor and wondering what she’d say if she knew he’d been filling bottles with petrol. ‘Tell the copper you don’t know where I am.’ He ran for the back door. ‘I’ll see youse later, Ma.’

  But Mrs Barber was more interested in the young policewoman’s ashen face. With a sinking heart, she wondered what Wesley had done this time to make this woman so frightened of talking to him.

  >

  Police Message to all stations

  >

  28.07.01

  >

  12.32

  >

  Bassindale Estate

  >

  Milosz Zelowski, 23 Humbert Street, reports youths causing nuisance in street since interview this morning re: missing child

  >

  Patrol car 031 responding

  >

  28.07.01

  >

  12.35

  >

  Bassindale Estate

  >

  Ms J. MacDonald, 84 Forest Row South, reports sighting of Amy Biddulph in Bassindale Row at 22.00 yesterday

  >

  Reports 25 attempts to make the call

  >

  Police lines permanently busy

  >

  28.07.01

  >

  12.46

  >

  Bassindale Estate

  >

  Patrol car 031 diverted to interview Ms J. MacDonald re: possible sighting of Amy Biddulph

  Seven

  Saturday 28 July 2001 21

  Humbert Street, Bassindale Estate

  JIMMY JAMES MADE a grab for Melanie’s waist as she put a plate of food on the table but she was too quick for him, sliding out of his encircling arm in a graceful pirouette. Rosie giggled at the other end of the table. ‘See, darlin’,’ said her mother, ‘I told you he’d only have one thing on his mind when they let him out.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say things like that to her,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s too young.’

  ‘She needs to know what blokes are like,’ said Melanie severely, tapping the edge of his plate with a spoon. ‘Just eat your dinner so you can get your arse down the road. You’re not that drunk you can’t understand what’s goin’ on.’

  He was a huge, handsome black man with a shaven head who had just spent four months in prison for a string of minor offences, and who had no intention of going back. He’d told Melanie it was because of his baby that was growing in her belly but the truth (which he admitted only to himself) was that he was finding it harder and harder to do the time. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t, Mel,’ he said irritably, flicking the spoon away with his finger. ‘There was a nasty mood on the street this morning, and I don’t plan to be anywhere near it if the coppers come in.’

  ‘They’re not gonna arrest you for marching,’ she said. ‘It’s a free country. Protests are allowed.’

  ‘Depends what kind of protest. You and Gaynor are wrong if you think the acid-heads’ll do what you tell them. You could end up in the middle of a riot and that’s fucking scary, Mel.’

  ‘What about the little kid? She was seen in the Row last night and everyone reckons the nonces’ve got her.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What would a couple of gay nonces want with a little girl? Tell me that.’

  ‘Perverts are perverts,’ she said dogmatically.

  ‘Like hell they are. On that basis I’d’ve slept with blokes in the nick because there weren’t any birds available. You fancy what you fancy, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The same applies to paedophiles.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I’ve got brains, and I use them.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘You and Gaynor’ll get yourselves nicked for incitement if you pass on crap-arse gossip and people get hurt.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.’

  He shrugged and tilted his chair to look at her. ‘All right. Who saw the kid and what were they on? Tell me it wasn’t that retard, Wesley Barber, who spent five hours on an alien spacecraft, spaced out on acid, having his sperm milked to make a super race.’ He grinned at her expression. ‘Learn a bit of wisdom, babe, and let me eat my food in peace. I don’t want my arse busted for some middle-class white kid who’s almost certainly dead by now.’

  She punched his arm. ‘You’ve gotta be there, Jimmy. The meet’s at Glebe School and if you don’t come with me, people’ll talk.’

  ‘You mean the women’ll talk,’ he said cynically. ‘So what’s new? They do fuck all else except sit on their arses and tear their men to shreds.’

  ‘You’re such a wimp,’ she said, trying to rile him. ‘You make out you’re Mike Tyson, but the minute there’s any trouble you run the other way.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I can’t afford trouble at the moment,’ he said, dropping the chair legs to the floor again and poking a fork grumpily into his food. ‘I’ve got some deals going down, and getting nicked for hounding a couple of nonces out of their house ain’t part of the game plan.’

  ‘Anyone’d think you had a soft spot for them.’ She was worried about her reputation. What would everyone say if her man failed to turn out after she’d told them what a hard bloke he was? ‘They’ll reckon you got too close to them in the nick and started to feel sorry for them.’

  Jimmy chewed in silence for a while, wondering if she knew how close she was to the truth. He’d had his head done in good and proper by his first cell mate and he didn’t care to be reminded of it. The guy was a music teacher, coming to the end of his sentence, who had taught Jimmy notation during the three weeks they were together. He was a bit of a genius, knew everything there was to know about jazz, and could use his voice to mimic instruments. By the end of the third week he was the backing track to Jimmy’s rap, and Jimmy was beginning to plan a legitimate career in music. They even had a demo tape under way. It was looking good till word leaked out that his mate was banged up for giving handjobs to some of the boys in his school. Two days later he had all his fingers broken in the showers.

  It took Jimmy a while to get over it. The motherfucker had tried to tough it out on the open wings after being transferred from an all-Rule prison on the Isle of Wight. He claimed he was in for cheque fraud, which was the kind of thing an educated man might have done, but someone snitched – probably an officer – and he ended up in the vulnerable prisoner unit for protection. Jimmy never saw him again, although he thought about him from time to time. He was the only bloke he’d ever met in prison that he actually liked, and it struck him as pretty sad that his pleasure came from giving handjobs when most guys preferred to be on the receiving end.

  ‘Let them think what they like,’ he told Melanie, pushing away his barely touched plate. ‘I’ve got better things to do than shout insults at weirdos.’

  Glebe School, Glebe Road, Bassindale Estate

  Gangs of drunken youths were already milling around the school forecourt, downing lager and psyching themselves up for a confrontation with the perverts. In among them, Wesley Barber pranced like an idiot, mouthing off about how he was going to roast nonces . . . fire-bomb the school . . . raid the Co-op . . . stick pigs. He twitched with excitement like a dog scenting a bitch on heat, and there was jeering from the other boys as he karate-chopped the air in imitation of Wesley Snipes in Demolition Man and Blade.

  ‘Jesus, you’re a fucki
ng retard, Wesley!’

  ‘What you on, meathead?’

  Colin Patterson and Kevin Charteris dragged him away. ‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake,’ said Colin angrily. ‘My mum’ll go apeshit if she hears you talking like that. She’ll call the cops if she thinks you’re gonna do something stupid. It’s supposed to be a march, you spastic.’ He felt brave because he was drunk, never mind the thicko was hyped to the eyeballs on every bit of crap the dealers were selling. Even on a good day, Wesley was crazy as a dog with rabies, and most times Colin steered clear. But today was different. Today, like Kev said, they needed a psycho to do the business for Melanie.

  Wesley tried to jerk them off their feet to break their grip. ‘You said we wos gonna do war on vampire perverts,’ he roared like a child in a tantrum, ‘teach the motherfuckers a lesson. Wos you lying?’

  ‘Jeez, his head’s shot to pieces this time,’ said Colin. ‘Look at his eyes. They’re like a fucking zombie’s.’

  Kevin, the only one of his friends who had any control over Wesley, hooked an arm round the boy’s neck and wrenched his wrist up behind his back. ‘Are you gonna keep your mouth shut, you stupid moron?’ he hissed into his ear. ‘ ’Cos if you don’t, you won’t get nowhere near the pervs. None of us will. Col’s right. If his mum gets a sniff of trouble there won’t be no march and no fucking war. Geddit? The fun’ll be over . . .’n’ you’ll get wasted for ruining everyone’s day.’

  The madness died in Wesley’s eyes as suddenly as it had flared. A slow, peaceable grin spread across his face. ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘Youse don’t have to call me a moron, Kev. I got it. It’s just a march.’ His face fell into the sweet lines that had already fooled a number of magistrates. ‘We just gonna let the vampires know we’ve sussed ’em, right?’