Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  Chapter 9

  “To have once been a criminal is no disgrace. To remain a criminal is the disgrace.”

  Malcolm X

  Lunch consists of us huddling around the table in a local deli. The Parks have worked up an appetite, and they devour wraps, sandwiches, and cake with a teenage hunger I haven’t seen in years.

  They speak excitedly with their mouths full, except Adam, who barely looks up from staring at the table.

  ‘It’s wicked, up there,’ Joe says, his bright eyes brimming with excitement. ‘It’s the nearest I can get to flying. I want to go all the way up.’

  ‘Did you go up to the twenty-fifth floor?’ I shudder.

  ‘Yeah, you coming up with me later?’ he asks with a laugh.

  ‘You’re joking! I have vertigo. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me up there.’

  ‘They won’t let us,’ Lisa lisps. ‘Health and safety say only the first five floors.’

  Joe scoffs at the restriction. ‘The stuntmen are doing the best stuff; running along with the crane and leaping onto the twelfth floor.’

  ‘What about the roof?’ asks Peter.

  ‘Nah, it’s a no-go area. They say it’s too high and too dangerous,’ Joe replies. ‘But I’d do it.’

  Matt grins. ‘No, you won’t. I won’t allow it!’

  ‘Maybe I’ll become a stuntman.’ Joe swallows the last of his chicken wrap and reaches for his juice.

  ‘Not a pilot then?’ I tease.

  ‘This is more exciting.’ Joe laughs.

  Monika grins. ‘It’s an amazing feeling.’

  ‘It’s great you’re here with everyone.’ I push fruit cake in her direction. ‘Eat up. You must be starving after all that exercise.’

  Monika doesn’t reply, but she smiles and accepts the cake.

  ‘Cold,’ lisps Lisa. ‘It’s so cold. I can’t seem to get warm.’

  She hasn’t taken off her gloves, and she wraps her fingers around the hot chocolate.

  Matt wipes mayonnaise from his chin. ‘It’s perishing for the end of November.’

  ‘I’m going on a holiday,’ Monika announces. ‘After this is all over.’

  ‘Where?’ asks Lisa.

  ‘Haven’t decided, but with the money we’re earning, I might get a job in a bar in Spain or Greece.’

  ‘Weren’t you thinking of nursing?’ I bite into my cheese and tomato sandwich.

  Monika shrugs. ‘Nah.’

  ‘You did say that,’ Joe says quietly. ‘You said in Morocco, that’s what you were going to do.’

  ‘I changed my mind,’ Monika replies defensively.

  ‘You’re allowed to change your mind,’ Lisa says. ‘But I’m still going to be a nurse.’

  ‘I want to feel warm. I want some sunshine—’

  ‘You’re lying. You’re just frightened.’ Joe stares at Monika.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You want to run away,’ he insists.

  ‘Frightened of what?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not like that.’ Monika throws her unfinished cake on the table and glares at Joe. ‘Besides, it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘What hasn’t?’ asks Matt.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replies, still making eye contact with Joe. ‘Absolutely nothing at all. Joe’s got a big gob, that’s all.’

  ‘Has this anything to do with Ali?’ I ask.

  Joe stares at me, and Monika picks up her hot chocolate. Then Joe slurps his juice and Lisa looks away at a couple on the far side of the room. Adam doesn’t lift his gaze from an invisible spot on the table. He eats his sandwich, screws up the wrapper, and tosses it onto the table.

  ‘We don’t want to talk about it,’ Joe says.

  ‘You don’t want to speak about your friend?’ I ask gently.

  ‘No,’ agrees Monika. Her face is resolute and unreadable. ‘We don’t.’

  I let the pause linger before asking, ‘Why not?’

  It’s Joe who answers quietly, ‘He’s dead, and that’s it. He’s gone.’

  ‘Do you think he killed himself?’

  They share surreptitious glances, which are beginning to infuriate me. I need answers, and they need to help me.

  ‘Look, I think Ali was involved in a cult.’

  I take it in turns to look at each of them all, trying to make eye contact and ignoring the angry stares of Matt and Peter.

  ‘I think it’s a cult where there’s an initiation ceremony involving a dagger, where you swear allegiance … and I think you have a tattoo inked here on your breast.’

  I point to my jacket and space just under my heart.

  Joe, Monika, and Lisa follow the direction of my finger, but Adam refuses to look anywhere other than the invisible spot on the table.

  ‘And the thing is, I want to find the dagger. I need to know what it looks like.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Lisa.

  ‘Is this to do with the documentary?’ asks Joe.

  ‘Sort of …’

  ‘I don’t want to be in the film you’re making,’ says Monika.

  ‘I need to find it because it’s been stolen, and we think it’s very valuable,’ I lie.

  ‘Are you police?’ asks Joe.

  ‘No, I’m a cultural expert. I look after the heritage of cultural possessions, like artwork and—’

  ‘Paintings?’ suggests Adam, looking up for the first time.

  ‘Yes.’ I gaze at him, remembering how we sketched together, wondering if he kept the drawings I made of him.

  ‘But you’re not the police,’ insists Joe.

  ‘No.’

  I let that sink in before adding, ‘I just want to find the dagger and make sure it isn’t the one that’s been stolen and I’ve been asked to find.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘By a private owner,’ I lie again.

  Peter is glaring at me. He’s annoyed I’ve broken our cover.

  The silence continues until Matt begins grabbing the rubbish together.

  ‘Right, come on, guys. We’ve got some moves to bust on the fifth floor.’

  * * *

  I spend the afternoon hanging around, watching and waiting.

  All film sets are the same. It takes so long to set up the action scenes and to have everything and everybody in place, and it’s quite dull and icy cold. Initially, I was interested, but now, it’s getting dark, and I’m frozen.

  While the crew continue to set up lighting and camera angles, Sandra Worthington checks the film monitors and discusses techniques with the stuntmen. She’s wrapped up in a woollen scarf, and only her nose and eyes are visible. Although we chat quickly, she’s in a hurry to finish the filming for the day before the light is completely gone.

  ‘Coming to the roof, Mikky?’ She takes my arm laughing, and I unhook my arm from her hand.

  ‘Not today, but thanks for the offer.’ I grin.

  Peter takes it all seriously. He hobbles elegantly beside Keith, who’s taking advantage of Peter’s SAS knowledge for the fight scenes, and once they decide to venture up to a higher floor, I decide to leave.

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Peter takes me to one side. ‘You’ve blown our cover; you’ve worried Matt and the Parks don’t know what or who to believe.’

  I sigh. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come on, Mikky.’ Keith beckons me to follow them all.

  ‘No way.’ I back off.

  ‘Coward,’ Peter says with a grin.

  I give him the middle finger and Joe and Lisa laugh.

  Monika is playing on her mobile phone. Any intimacy of our chats or the night she stayed in my room has been forgotten. I walk over and crouch down beside where she sits on a concrete step.

  ‘You’ll get a cold,’ I say.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Look, Monika, if you ever want to speak to me, I’m here for you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you want my number?’ I ask. I scroll through my contacts, find my number, and I hold it up for
her to see. ‘I won’t ask for your number. I’m not hounding you. I just want you to know I’m your friend and if you need to speak or you want to meet up or hang out and have a chat, then give me a ring.’

  I’m relieved when she adds my number to her contact list.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now, I’m getting out of here before I freeze to death.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Monika grins. ‘It’s cold, alright.’

  As I stand up and stretch my legs, I notice that Adam is sitting alone, secretly watching us. I walk toward him, but he jumps up and moves quickly away from me.

  I give up.

  I wave to Peter, Keith, and Sandra, but they’re heading upward, too busy to notice me leaving.

  This block is only ten or fifteen minutes from the train stations in the north of London, and Regent’s Canal. It’s a busy area, and it looks prosperous – more prosperous than the other side of the estate, where the Luke, Thomas, and John blocks stand like three pillars sprouting up from the earth.

  I pause at the news-stand to pick up a copy of the Evening Standard.

  There’s been another stabbing in West London, and the headline is a quote from the prime minister, promising that more police will be deployed under his government. Millions will be spent on the NHS and the police forces across the country. In the rest of the article, he vows to break up the drugs gangs and to hold those responsible to account. His election promise is clear: I will clean up and we will win!

  * * *

  The following morning, I arrive at Dixon House early, and I’m surprised that Matt and the Parks are having breakfast in the canteen together. I greet them casually with a wave and Matt comes over to me holding his coffee.

  ‘Come with me,’ he says, taking me by the arm and guiding me toward his office. His desk is stacked with documents and paperwork.

  ‘Legalities, insurance, and paperwork – it’s a pain.’ He pushes it to one side and sits down. I sit down opposite him.

  ‘Monika says she can’t do any more filming,’ he says. ‘Her auntie is very difficult, so I’m having to replace her and Ali, of course, with a couple of other guys. They’re not as good, but they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Do you know her auntie?’

  ‘Of course, they come to the food bank most days.’

  ‘She has children?’

  ‘She has four boys.’

  ‘Do they work?’

  Matt considers the question, frowns, and cracks his knuckles. ‘They’ve done some bar work, stacking shelves, cleaning cars – they left school without much of an education. The system fails people like them – they’re expected to go to university, but quite honestly, they’d be better off as apprentices. You know, a mechanic, or a butcher, plumber, or electrician.’ He sighs. ‘There’s so much wrong with our country, Mikky.’

  ‘Maybe the election will solve it.’

  ‘A change in government won’t change anything. The system has to change, and how we do things, but from my experience, no matter who is elected, they only serve themselves. You never see a poor politician – in any country in the world.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I reply.

  ‘There’s poverty everywhere, Mikky. And, like many people with her background – education, family, and lack of support – Monika falls between the gaps. On the estates around here, it’s normal. They are second- and third-generation unemployed, and they’re bored. They have no job and no money. They go looking for fast money, which is invariably in drugs, and it gives them kudos and status in the community. And if they have to cheff someone to prove themselves to the gang bosses, then they do. They have no regard for human life, and they don’t even care if they go to prison. They’re desperate to prove themselves. To rise higher up in the gangs – and that means more money and better status.’

  ‘And more violence?’

  ‘Very often, yes.’

  ‘It’s an ever-spiralling circle,’ I say.

  ‘It’s so easy to hook these kids in – that’s the frustrating thing. I know, Mikky, because it happened to me. At first, I thought I was the big guy; you know, I had money in my pocket, and the girls were easy. I had new trainers, I could afford a hoodie, the best iPhone, and I had a decent place to live with regular meals, but then—’ Matt breaks off.

  ‘Then what?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Then they want more from you. The police start watching you, following you, and searching your body. It isn’t enough to plug yourself with drugs, because other gangs know you, and suddenly you’ve got to protect yourself. You shove the drugs up your arse in case you get stopped by police or robbed by thieves, but they have eyes everywhere. There are risks and constant danger. The pressure builds. You’ve got to deliver and get paid. Half the junkies are stoned, so you’ve got to squeeze the money from them and run. Timing is everything, but then you have to prove you can look after yourself. You’ve got to keep the peace between the addicts and the gangs, and you’ve got to clean up. Then when you’re told to stab someone, a traitor, or someone who’s turned rogue, there’s no backing out, Mikky. I know …’

  ‘And there’s no one to talk to … to turn to for protection – not even the police?’

  ‘You can grass them up, but they’d kill you and your family.’

  ‘But the police need to—’

  ‘Mikky! It’s terrifying – and worse, it’s the Asian.’

  ‘Did you know Monika and Ali were part of the gang?’

  ‘I guessed. It isn’t rocket science.’ He sighs and cracks his knuckles, and the sound echoes in the confines of the small room.

  ‘You were brave to get them away.’

  ‘But it doesn’t last. They got to Ali again. Look at what happened.’ Matt grips his hands.

  ‘So, what now?’ I ask.

  ‘What did Monika say to you?’

  ‘Nothing. She clammed up. Adam is around, and she seems frightened.’

  ‘Adam,’ he repeats thoughtfully.

  Matt is holding back on me. ‘Do you know if he’s in the cult, too?’ I ask.

  Matt shakes his head. ‘It’s hard to know what’s going on, Mikky. Look at me. I’m just trying to run this place and get funding to look after as many people as I can. Can you believe I’m trying to sort out our Christmas fund-raising activity? Christmas carols and an auction for children’s Christmas presents. Most of these kids won’t even know or care it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Who’s the main sponsor, the main fundraiser?’

  ‘Raymond Harris and his wife.’

  ‘His wife? Arlene?

  ‘Yes, she’s great. She helps out here sometimes. She and her friends do sponsored marathons and stuff like that to raise money. Why?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to her.’

  * * *

  I spend the next few hours researching daggers and Arlene and Raymond Harris, then after Matt phones me, I find my way to a leafy suburb in Islington’s upmarket area. It’s a two-storey, white-painted brick house with warm, yellow lights on the front porch.

  I ring the bell and wait.

  I had thought Raymond Harris’s wife, Arlene Elizabeth Harris, was younger. But today she looks in her early forties. She’s well made up and wearing a printed patterned dress. Her doll-like face has been surgically enhanced, leaving her with a permanent expression of pleasant surprise, and when her lips curl in a smile, the skin on her face doesn’t move.

  I give her the benefit of a broad smile and hold out my hand.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mikky dos Santos, I’ve been at the Dixon Trust working with Matt. Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Come in; Matt called me.’ She takes my outstretched hand, and her fingers are strong and boney.

  ‘I’m a freelance journalist. I’m making a documentary on the Parks. I’ve been looking at the amazing work that Matt, and you, and your husband, of course, have been doing at the Dixon Trust. You know, all the parkour and the filming in Morocco – I was thrilled to be asked over there.’

  ‘I don’t do much at D
ixon House.’ She smiles vaguely. ‘It’s Raymond who you need to speak to. He’s amazing. He has been extremely forceful with his stance for better housing conditions.’

  ‘Well, quite frankly, I’d be delighted to be able to interview him. But I think he must be swamped with the election coming up. I’m thrilled to be here now with you.’ I shiver dramatically on the cold doorstep, and pull my collar closer to my neck and hike my photography equipment higher onto my shoulder. ‘Would it be possible for me to come inside? I’m frozen.’

  Arlene opens the door, and I follow her down a polished oak floor to a kitchen, which appears to be the social hub of the house.

  ‘I won’t be able to tell you very much,’ she calls over her shoulder.

  ‘Matt says you and your friends have been amazing raising money with sponsored events.’

  ‘Oh, that! That’s nothing.’

  There’s a small red sofa, and an exercise bike pointed toward the terrace window, and a TV showing the BBC lunchtime news. There’s also a crystal glass of white wine on the central island. She sees me eying the glass with appreciation.

  ‘I suppose with the election coming up that Raymond is working flat out?’ I grin.

  ‘I don’t normally drink at lunchtime …’

  ‘Me neither. It is a rare luxury.’ I rub my hands.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’

  ‘Well, I’m not driving. I’d love to, thank you. You’re really kind.’ I smile and place my camera case on the counter, watching her lithe, neat body as she moves toward the massive double-door American fridge in the corner of the room.

  The bottle of expensive Chablis she pulls out is half-empty, and she pours a generous glass for me and slides it across the counter. I guess she’s a fitness fanatic and a drinker.

  ‘Cheers! This is lovely, Arlene – thank you.’ The wine glides down my throat as smoothly as my lies glide out. ‘Goodness, that’s delicious.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She indicates for me to sit on the sofa and waits for me to speak. ‘I only drink Chablis.’

  I smile. ‘Well, perhaps you could help me fill in the gaps about your husband?’

  ‘Have we met before?’ she asks.

  ‘I was at the fund-raiser last week – the charity auction?’