Such words elicited a Pavlovian fear, rendering me dumb.
‘But like most irritations,’ said Chas. ‘I got rid of it in the end.’
I contradicted my dry throat to speak. ‘I… I’ve got it.’
‘So I hear.’
‘You can have it!’
‘You think?’
‘You can have it right now.’
‘I’ll come get it shall I?’
‘Right—’
‘Dickhead.’
‘Sorry! I didn’t think. I’m sorry.’
‘I hear a lot of sorrys kid – it’s a word.’
‘I don’t want it. I never wanted it – it just happened.’
‘A close associate of mine…’ His voice cracked, as though his vast containment of anger had sprung an unexpected leak. ‘He’s not too good.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like you ripping me off?’
‘I wasn’t! I just—’
‘Save it.’
‘But I want you to know—’
‘Shut up.’
I was quiet.
‘Get to the bus shelter on Walker Street – tomorrow night.’
‘What?’
‘Be there for six. Just wait. Someone’ll see you.’
‘But… I don’t want anything to happen. I’m…’ I spoke more tentatively. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do as you’re told. Understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll decide what happens then.’
I paused. ‘We?’
‘Be there.’
‘OK.’
The line disconnected.
Thirty-Three
But you really disappoint, and
sometimes I just can’t bear it.
Darkness settled. Like an over blanket softening the shapes beneath, you could squint and imagine the silhouetted council hovels to be Lower Manhattan. Four tower blocks stood aligned, monoliths seeming to await a ritual sacrifice. Me. As I elevated my gaze, I saw several windows glowing, some with no nets. Once, from a similar vantage point, I’d seen a topless lady close her curtains – but right then, God had to provide more than great tits to make me smile.
The particular concrete atrocity that Mum and Dad called home sported sliding front doors and a dead intercom, short-circuited by years of well-aimed urination. Such facts afforded me access with little more ingenuity than pulling the doors apart. I crept along the corridor, unnerved by the echo of my own footsteps, the laundry room fifteen loud paces to my right. I entered to a wave of heat that made me a little breathless. The vents had been reported on numerous occasions, though perhaps the blockage was an intentional effort at a DIY sauna. The large commercial washing machines were motionless and baring empty drums. From a flat above, unimpressed Shania Twain warbled at volume, the bass creating a thud that reverberated around the innards of the machines, rattling them. I closed my eyes and slumped over a wooden bench. In spite of the slats grating my shoulder blades, the tension snarls in my muscles and Shania-fucking-Twain – I slept.
‘Jesus Christ,’ bawled a voice.
The noise destroyed my slumber, like a shattered mirror. I sat upright, my heart punching the back of my ribs. I saw Mum. I was pacified – a wholly new experience – if momentarily. The feeling gave way to a creeping unease. ‘Shouldn’t your swearing be more Muslim-friendly?’ I said.
Her skinny arms went limp, allowing the washing basket she held to drop to the floor. ‘What you done? You’ve been on telly, the lot. I ought to turn you in – you’re a criminal.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Why you wanted by police then?’
I inhaled deeply, and again. To quantify the soothing properties of these deep breaths, I reckon I’d have needed ten-thousand gallons of air to be totally calm – and perhaps a little lighter fluid.
‘Listen,’ I said to Mum, turning her shoulders to make her look at me. ‘I haven’t done anything, whatever anyone says.’
‘You’ve brought us shame. Your sister’s beside herself. Syd’s dead. The state she’s in. Police came for you yesterday, said they’d be back. I pray you’ve nowt to do with it.’ Mum held her head and looked away. ‘Go hand yourself in.’
‘I can’t – I can’t tell you why. But it wasn’t my fault.’
It was quiet for a moment. I was usually astute in perceiving Mum’s thoughts because of her predominant negativity, but the situation of pleading my innocence to murder was rather more intense than an argument over who ate the last Penguin biscuit, and the strain of her face made me think it was possible she had intricacies I had never given her credit for. I watched her forehead glisten, becoming acutely aware of the heat in the room and the moistening of my own body parts.
‘You do believe me?’ I said.
‘Me and Dad had to come back – for this. If I don’t believe you, it makes me…’ She shook her head vigorously, as though to expel a poltergeist. ‘I just don’t know anymore.’
What did you know beforehand? How to cook a pizza in a frying pan? How to get four cuppas out of one teabag? Are we about to add empathy to the list?
My gaze settled upon the window, a small rectangular pane of chicken wire glass. It was light outside – light grey, that is. Beside a block of garages, a sapling stood supported upon a patch of brown grass. The twig showed little sign of flourishing – like every sorry bastard within two square, grey miles. And whilst pondering sorry bastards, I saw a prime specimen waddle by the window.
‘Where’s Dad off to?’ I mumbled, wiping my forehead with my sleeve.
‘Morning paper,’ said Mum, her voice still bereft. ‘Probably with your mug on the front page.’
Indeed – I wondered if I would even see the next morning. I wished I’d have woken up earlier, watched the sunrise, watched the milkman deliver methadone and hardcore VHS tapes; watched the graveyard shift dolies lurch toward the Jobcentre.
Still, fuck nostalgia – I craned my neck to watch Dad heave himself across the pavement. A marked police car turned into the street, pausing beside him.
‘Police,’ I yelped.
‘What a surprise,’ said Mum.
I saw Dad point back toward the tower block, toward the very window by which I spied on him. He frowned, appeared to speak briefly and then carried on his way. The jam sandwich moved in, spilling a uniformed officer. There was turbulence in my belly. I headed for the door, though quickly realised the corridor behind was merely a conduit to the front doors, to the advancing constabulary.
‘Mum… Hide me.’
Mum glanced across the four corners of the room, then lit a fag with tremulous fingers. ‘I won’t be dragged into trouble,’ she said. ‘I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again – hand yourself in.’
‘For fuck’s sake…’ I crouched before one of the machines, poking my head into the drum, a stagnant whiff as I proceeded to fold my body inside.
‘What you doing that for?’ said Mum, her exhalation like a stuttering engine exhaust. ‘It’s just daft.’
The drum cradled me like a tin womb, more lovingly than Mum ever had. Such confinement created an echo, adding depth to my voice, making me sound less pitiable: ‘If you let them find me, we’re all done for.’
Mum spluttered, somewhat more vigorously than a usual fag fix. She took a couple of steps forward, tentatively, clamped the fag between her lips and then scooped an armful of clothes. She gave an unintelligible grumble as she pushed the clothes into the drum – the mucky sock pushed into my mouth was probably more accidental then symbolic.
I wretched.
A click, then creaking as the laundry door opened. Peering between a stale shirt and a screwed-up tabard, I watched the policeman breeze into the room.
‘Mrs Jones,’ he
said. The tone was flat, as though vaccinated against a sense of humour. ‘A word.’
Mum leaned against the machine door, closing it enough to obscure me – I peered stealthily through her Twiglet legs, sweating extensively. ‘I wish you buggers would leave us alone,’ she said.
‘Funny time to be doing your washing,’ said the policeman. ‘Considering…’
Mum exhaled and gave a throaty cough. ‘Considering what?’
‘Your son, Mrs Jones. It’s critical we find him. If you’ve heard anything, seen anything… It could be easy for lines of loyalty to become, shall we say, hazy. Just remember we need to speak to Lloyd concerning very serious crimes.’
There was a pause.
I imagined Mum’s face tensing, making her look like a perturbed walnut. As her legs wobbled, I reckoned her thoughts would too. I mean, ten years previously, she’d shown no compunction in surrendering me to the corner shop for lifting Garbage Pail Kids stickers. Why the fuck wouldn’t she give me up there and then?
Finally, I heard Mum say: ‘Kecks’ll get skiddies – an overblown game of hide and seek won’t change that.’
The policeman’s nosed twitched, it was small and pointy and stuck to his face like a carrot on a snowman. ‘Where’s Lloyd,’ he said flatly.
‘’Scuse me,’ said Mum. I saw her flick out a towel, allowing it to unravel and spread over the floor – it was a Smurfs beach towel. ‘Prayer time,’ she said, then stubbing her fag against the washing machine.
‘That right? In the laundry?’
‘Allah is everywhere,’ said Mum – she kneeled over Papa Smurf. ‘Privacy, please.’
The policeman stepped forward, wiping his boots on the towel. ‘There’s talk of Lloyd having an appointment later today.’
Mum stretched forward, lowering herself onto all fours and screeching what sounded like Arabian nights from Aladdin.
‘Tell him to stick to that appointment.’
As I peered more intensely, the white of the policeman’s shirt appeared dulled and his epaulettes wonky – as though stuck on with Velcro. He leaned forward, grasping beneath Mum’s chin and pulling her head so she looked up to him. ‘Are you listening, Mrs Jones?’
A feeling of doom swelled in my belly. I kicked open the door, emerging from the machine like a rabbit being smoked from its hole. ‘Don’t touch her,’ I said, my voice almost a squeak.
‘Well, well,’ said the policeman, eyes widening. ‘I think you’d better come with me, son.’
I shoved Mum to one side, grabbed the edge of the towel and tugged with all my strength. The policeman fell backwards, helmet toppling.
Crack.
As his head ricocheted from the bench, Mum shrieked. He rolled across the lino and vomited. His body jerked. He reached for purchase, hand skidding through the bile and chunk – he slumped. I grabbed Mum’s arm, dragging her from the room like a caveman dragging an animal carcass to his cavewoman. Out in the corridor, I kicked the door shut, grabbed a broom from the cleaner’s cupboard and jammed it tight between the door stop and the door handle.
I pulled Mum up from a crumple of bones. ‘Go call the police,’ I said, holding her shoulders to stop her trembling.
‘You’ve killed the police!’ she shrieked.
‘He wasn’t a policeman, Mum.’ I couldn’t help but shake her, perhaps hoping I’d dislodge some of her stubborn stupidity. ‘And he’s not dead.’
‘What’s happening to you? You’re out of control. You’re destroying this family. I dread to think what Dad’ll say.’
I took a lung full of air, glancing away as I ushered her along the corridor. Out through the front doors, the cool air was sobering. I saw the cop car, saw the absence of a blue light and the faded decals. Be it a disposal or cheap mock-up, I’d been fooled only by my initial panic. ‘Look.’ Swivelling Mum, I pointed. ‘Does that banger look like a real police car to you?’
She stared, but didn’t reply. I reckoned her brain had fizzled, the cinders swept away by a caretaker called Incomprehension. I steered Mum toward the street, the car windscreen reflecting two forlorn looking figures – my clothes really were dreadful. ‘Can you find me something to wear?’ I said. ‘T-shirt, jeans – something?’
Mum looked back, seemingly to gaze through my very existence. She touched her lip, twirling a tin wedding ring around her finger. We stood for a moment. Mum reached up and straightened my collar. It took three seconds, but if that moment had happened anytime during my childhood, I might have ended up at university.
She turned away, scurrying ahead in an old person kind of way. ‘God help us… Allah help us. Allah help you!’
Thirty-Four
These fists are formed
with temperate hands.
I sat huddled inside the bus shelter on Walker Street, my eyes seizing upon the movement of every car, every person, every stray animal. For the sixteenth time that minute, I touched the ring box inside my pocket. Mum had brought me a hoodie and a pair of jeans – raided from a recycling bin – and for those moments my new clothes seemed to fit better than my own skin.
A black Jaguar turned into the street. The car seemed to exude a kind of conspicuous authority, creeping to a halt opposite. As the passenger window slid open, the face behind was familiar – Black Cab Man – his tracksuit top and unevenly shaven head at odds with the car.
I pulled back my hood, leaning in. ‘Are we going for a ride?’ I said, my voice tremulous.
‘I’m here t’pass on information. That’s it.’
I dug the ring box from my jeans and extended my arm into the car. ‘Take it.’
The man appeared to recoil a little. ‘Na. Not here.’
‘But—’
‘Go t’Infirmary, ward six, cubicle four.’
‘What? Why?’
He pushed my arm away. ‘Go.’
‘Who do I look for?’
‘Now.’
I snapped my arm back as the car moved away. What else could I do? I hurried off to the hospital.
I’d been waiting for five minutes, loitering beneath a ‘no smoking’ sign by the entrance to A&E. My hood hung loosely, protecting my identity with the façade of a Nike clad monk. The point was to conjure enough courage to face the unknown, to try not to die – for I feared pushing my luck. Taking a copious breath of evening air, I looked around. An ambulance took off in full light and sound, the shrill in my ears making me squint. A couple of young nurses trotted past, giggling – presumably not at me, though paranoia told otherwise. Lawless cigarette smoke drifted, the smell reminding me of Mum and seeming to pacify the cold, clinical atmosphere, if only for a few seconds. I fidgeted on my feet, grasped some decisiveness and ventured inside.
The queue for A&E greeted me with a medley of groans and blood stained dressings. I passed through, maintaining a brisk pace along a corridor and into the lift lobby. My gaze remained predominantly downwards, sporadic glances away from the ground prompting a tug on my hood each time I noticed a Big Brother camera. One of four lifts stood waiting, open for me – I acquiesced. Motion and fear combined to churn my innards like a lottery machine, the sixth floor arriving with an abrupt halt that made me shudder. As the lift door slid into itself, I controlled my breathing and walked onto the ward.
Disinfectant agitated my nasal hair, the gentle activity of early evening showing my entrance little concern. I found the door to cubicle four – closed tight. Obliterating any thoughts daring to probe my mind, I kept my momentum and entered without hesitation.
Chas.
The Chip Shop King sat upright, hospital bed his throne, prison denim as obvious as a stripy jumper and swag bag. Glowering, his pupils expanded into dustbin lids and I retreated from eye contact. Two men sat to a side, their epaulettes and clip ties like fancy dress – Screw #1 rose from his chair.
My mouth opened. ‘Hello.’
&n
bsp; ‘Get that hood off. No visitors here.’
‘This is my nephew,’ said Chas, voice cracking beneath a laboured affability. ‘Cut us some slack, eh?’
‘You’re on remand – you know the rules.’
‘Five minutes?’ Chas yanked his arm, seeming to forget being cuffed to the bed. ‘It’s doing my nut in here.’
Screw #2 peered over his Daily Mirror. ‘Guess that means you stop swallowing coins.’
‘An unwanted guest in my Yorkshire pudding.’
‘Spare us the spin, Holder. You fancied a jolly—’
Thud.
Screw #1 clobbered his partner with a drip stand. Screw #2 slumped into his Daily Mirror, face moulding to the paper like a chip shop Shroud of Turin.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Screw #2 hit the floor.
Blood dribbled.
Then clinking.
I glanced up as screw #1 took the keychain from his belt, Chas flicked away his handcuffs and stretched from the bed into full beer barrel frame.
Don’t look at me!
‘So where’s the money?’ said screw #1, stood rigid, like a robot without a battery.
Money? Where’s the fucking escape pod?
Chas gave a deep exhalation. ‘You made the right decision, Terry.’ His words were flat, no gratitude. ‘But you know we need to make this look convincing?’
‘The money?’
‘Sorry, Terry.’
I’m sorry too… for too many ‘maybe’s and ‘what if’s… and I’m sorry for Syd… and for Ms Fish… I’m sorry for everything…
Chas caught screw #1 by the scruff, then holding him in a head-lock and squeezing, his face passing though deepening shades of red. There was no struggle, but a splutter, then a sense of resignation – inevitability even – as screw #1’s face arrived at a raw purple.
Thud.
The tally of slumped bodies doubled.
The Chip Shop King shot a glance over my whereabouts. He approached, heal clipping screw #1’s ear. His voice was abrasive, like striking a match. ‘No fuss. Got it?’
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 17