by Mike Ripley
Which made me think of Springsteen and the fact that he hadn’t been fed for nearly 24 hours. He’d have my leg off.
But wonders (Rule of Life No 3) never cease. Outside my flat, sitting on the stairs, legs curled and making soft purring noises, was Fenella.
Next to her, his face stuck into a plate of what looked like raw mince, was Springsteen. I could see from the four small puncture marks on Fenella’s wrist that she had tried to stroke him during lunch. Silly girl. He’s an ungrateful bastard at the best of times, but biting the hand that feeds you while it’s feeding you is a bit out of order.
‘Hello, Fenella,’ I said, because she wouldn’t have spoken if I hadn’t. ‘Has he conned you as well?’ She smiled a really nice smile. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess: the scratching at the door, the piteous crying, the sucked-in, ever-so-thin ribs …’
She nodded and sighed.
‘Yeah. Taught him everything I know.’
That brought a spot of colour to her cheeks when she’d worked it out.
‘I couldn’t stand it any more – hearing him howl, I mean. But it was Lisabeth who got the mince for him. I had to feed him, though; she’s not a cat person.’
‘Hey, there’s nothing nasty in there, is there? I mean, you’re not missing a light bulb or anything, are you?’
‘Don’t be awful, Angel, she’s just trying to butter you up.’
‘Coming from anyone else, Fenella, that would be rude, but I know you’re a well-brought-up young …’ The penny dropped. ‘Your parents are coming, aren’t they, and she wants to move in with me.’
‘And you’d forgotten. She said you would.’
Fenella can be really prissy sometimes.
‘When are you expecting them?’
‘Tonight, about 6.00. I’m cooking vegetable curry for them.’
I was sure they could hardly wait; but then to be fair to Fenella, she was the only woman under 50 I knew in London who made her own damson jam. Most women in London work on the theory that if you can’t microwave it, only the ethnic minorities can cook it.
‘And when does Lisabeth want to move into the annexe? Not that I mean to make her sound like some latter-day Anne Frank, of course.’
‘She’s more or less packed.’
Springsteen finished the mince and inspected his whiskers for any he’d missed. Fenella retrieved her plate, keeping an eye out for the fastest claw in the East End.
‘Well, send her up,’ I said, putting my key in the flat door. Springsteen shot between my legs through the catflap without another look at Fenella. Typical male: eats and runs.
‘I’d better give her a hand or she’ll sulk. You wouldn’t have thought she had so much stuff.’ Fenella started down the stairs. ‘Who was Anne Frank, Angel?’
‘Before your time, luv. And don’t ask Lisabeth.’
She might know.
By the time the aged parents had arrived, Lisabeth was ensconced in my bedroom, the sleeping-bag (which has seen me through three continents, two sit-ins, an eviction and a New Year’s Eve in Trafalgar Square, and which I called Hemingway) in place on the sofa. Springsteen tested it for comfort, then hid under the low coffee table, partly because it’s the only table I have and partly because it’s the ideal place to ambush somebody coming out of the bedroom with no shoes on.
I went downstairs to help the Binkworthys in with their bags, and also to get a look at them as I was mildly curious, not to mention nosey.
Mr Binkworthy was a tall, dapperly-dressed bloke who had parked his redundancy-money Ford Sierra behind Armstrong. He looked at it suspiciously, and almost as if contemplating a sly kick at one of the wheels, as he unloaded the food parcels the diminutive and cheery Mrs Binkworthy thought Fenella needed. I said it was mine.
‘So you’re a musher, are you?’ he said, showing off.
‘Sort of. Yes, I own my own cab, but the real mushers would have me if I took a fare.’
He let me take a box of groceries (Sainsbury’s of course) while he unloaded a couple of suitcases from the boot. I told him to lock the car.
‘But we’re coming back. There’s more stuff on the back seat.’
‘Lock it or lose it.’ He took my advice, and I could see him thinking that maybe this wasn’t the best sort of area for his only daughter.
‘Don’t worry,’ I soothed. ‘It’s mostly kids after cassettes or petty cash in the glove compartment.’
He didn’t seem convinced, so I didn’t tell him that I wouldn’t give odds on his wheels being there in the morning.
‘So you’re a neighbour of Fenella’s?’ he huffed as he strained up the stairs.
‘Yup, next flat up. I’ve been here for nearly a year now.’
He paused outside Fenella’s open door. From inside, there came the clink of crockery and Mrs Binkworthy’s high-pitched voice feigning joviality.
‘I was very worried when Fenella came to live in London, I don’t mind telling you,’ he confided; so, as a totally unconcerned complete stranger, I tut-tutted sympathetically. ‘She’s very young for her age, you know.’ Well, so was I. ‘And her mother and I have always worried about her.’
My God, they suspected!
‘She’s been so sheltered from men, you know. All her life. Convent school, then secretarial college. We felt sure she’d be preyed on when she came to the big city.’ He smiled thinly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still, she appears to be looking after herself. Tell me honestly – you seem to be a friend – does she have any trouble with boyfriends?’
I looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, Mr Binkworthy, I can truthfully put your mind at ease on that score.’
The things I do for people.
Which reminded me, I had some credit cards to return. I wasn’t put off by the fact that Jo had told me not to call or see her. She’d obviously been confused and had things on her mind. Anyway, she owed me 50 quid.
And as there was a serious possibility of being invited in for tea and vegetable curry, I thought it wise to make myself scarce. It wasn’t that I minded Fenella, and I could have had fun doing a wind-up on her parents. No, the reason I dare not go would be the prospect of facing Lisabeth’s jealousy for the rest of the week. As it was, she pumped me about every move the Binkworthys had made since their arrival, before settling down with a mug of Bovril and a packet of salt ‘n’ vinegar to watch American football on the box. I hadn’t realised she was a fan, but it explained how she walked the way she did.
While she was deciding whether to support the Denver Broncos or the Pittsburgh Pederasts (whatever), I sneaked into the bedroom and nearly had a heart attack to find a three-foot Paddington Bear propped up on the pillow. How had she got that in without me seeing? But I wasn’t going to ask.
I took down from the bookshelf above the bed a hardback edition of Hugh Brogan’s History of the United States. I usually keep it between the Tolkiens and the McDonalds (John or Philip, not Ross). It’s actually quite a good book, and I’d had a few qualms about turning it over to Lenny the Lathe, who specialises in converting books more than an inch thick into fireproof, combination-lock safes. But he’d owed me a favour for a little job I’d done him and I’d needed somewhere to stash my passport, emergency cash and one or two other goodies. After all, there are 11 million people in the Naked City and only some of them are honest.
I removed Jo’s credit cards from the book-safe and returned it carefully, just in case Lisabeth got nosey. I had few worries that she would suddenly take an interest in American history, but she might notice something out of place, and the combination lock looked much more sophisticated than it actually was.
Before leaving, I gave a spare key to Lisabeth and an envelope with Jo’s two hundred quid for her to give to Mr Nassim. (Being a Muslim, he didn’t mind collecting rent on a Sunday.)
‘Oh God, is it rent day again?’ Lisabeth moaned. ‘
Okay, I’ll see the thief of Baghdad for you. In fact, it might be better if I head him off before he gets to our place. The Binkworthys will have a fit if they see old Gunga Din Rachman. Are you going to be late?’
I paused mid-way through zipping up my black, waterproof blouson, which advertised (discreetly) Coors Lite. Lousy beer, but a good jacket with more than a few memories of a young lady from Boulder, Colorado, attached to it.
‘Shouldn’t think so. Why?’
‘I was going to have an early night, but I won’t bother if you’re going to come in pissed and play your Little Feat LPs around midnight.’
‘Don’t worry, fair maiden, I shall return before the witching hour,’ I said, edging towards the door. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the snoring.’
‘Snoring?’
‘Yes. I’ve got earplugs, so don’t worry about it.’
I was out of the flat before she could turn her head, and as I passed Springsteen on the stairs, I said: ‘You’re on your own, kid.’
Armstrong zipped through the City with more than usual aplomb, which made me think that Duncan the Drunken had given him a tuning. He could never see an engine without laying a spanner on it. Not that there was much traffic about on a Sunday evening, and I was able to park right outside Sedgeley House.
The street door was locked, so I pressed the button numbered 11 on the squawk box built into the porch. There was no name tag in the oblong strip next to the button, but that wasn’t unusual. The only people left in London who put their name on their doorbells these days were called Monica or Helga, and there was rarely a surname.
There was no answer. I could have saved some diesel and phoned. Then the old porter I’d seen on my first visit shambled across the hallway, teapot with no lid in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other.
I tapped on the armour-plated glass, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t hear me, so I pressed the button marked ‘Reception’ and the old buffer jumped vertically like a Harrier with wind.
He came to the door carefully, mouthing ‘Whaddya-want?’ I couldn’t blame him; only a few days before, an eminent surgeon had been badly mugged in the entrance to his Harley Street office in the middle of the afternoon. Not only were the streets no longer safe, the lobbies were becoming risky too.
The old man put a deadlock on the door before opening it.
‘Flat 11,’ I said. ‘The bell doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘Bell’s working, but there ain’t nobody in, and I don’t know when anybody’ll be back. Is there a message?’
‘No …’ Over his shoulder, I could see the light above the lift doors flick on No 4. Top floor. Flat 11? ‘Er … Has Mrs Scamp gone out?’
‘Yes, this afternoon. Any message?’
The light showed the lift coming down.
‘And Mr Scamp?’
‘Oh, he’s away a lot. Haven’t seen him for months.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
I turned away and took a step back into the twilight. The lift stopped in the lobby and the doors opened. I didn’t know the man who stepped out and looked straight at the door, which the old buffer porter had managed to close. I think they spoke to each other, but I didn’t get a good look until I was sitting in Armstrong with the engine running.
I could see them clearly in the light of the foyer, but they couldn’t see me cloaked in the anonymity of Armstrong – and what more anonymous than a black London cab?
No, I’d definitely not seen the man coming out of the lift before. But he was a big man, and for some reason I had an unhealthy picture of him being more than able to do something unspeakable to Tonka toys.
Sunday night was usually jam session night at the Mimosa Club for assorted trad jazzmen who weren’t in regular bands or who couldn’t get a gig in one of the big suburban pubs. It was still early, so I didn’t expect many customers, but I did expect more than one – me.
There was a Django Reinhardt tape playing – I know, because I recorded it and sold it to Stubbly – and Ken the barman was sitting on a bar stool reading the News of the World.
‘Business booming, I see,’ I said.
Ken didn’t look up until he’d finished the story he was reading, and only then when his lips had finally stopped moving.
‘It’s gonna be a wasted evening. I told him it would be. I suppose you want a drink?’ He moved his bum and made his way round the bar.
‘Half a lager.’
‘Him again,’ snorted Ken.
‘Eh?’
‘Arthur Lager, regular customer.’
‘And an old one.’
‘The old ones are the best.’
‘That’s what we toy boys always say.’
Ken curled a lip in a half-snarl and slopped the beer over to me. From the foam on it, I guessed it was the first out of the keg that evening.
‘Be a pound.’
‘No staff discount?’
‘No staff. Not tonight; the session’s cancelled.’
‘Cancelled? What about all those young talents who are drawn here every Sunday? Where will they go?’
‘There’s always the night shelter at Tottenham Court Road. I suppose I’d better put up the notice.’
Ken reached down under the bar and produced a homemade sign. It was a sheet of white paper stuck on to cardboard on which was typed: ‘LIVE MUSIC CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE PENDING LICENCE RENEWAL APPLICATION – W. STUBBLY (PROP.)’
‘So no gig on Tuesday?’
‘Was there one booked? I never notice these days.’
‘Another new band, so I’d heard. Style leaders in electronic reggae called Warmharbour Coldharbour, with a lead singer called Effra.’ Ken looked totally underwhelmed.
‘After Effra Road, Brixton.’
Ken lost interest completely. For the moment, he contented himself with pinning the notice to the inner door of the club and taking great delight in reading it to two young black guys who had arrived carrying saxophone cases. They decided not to stay, which pleased Ken no end.
‘Stubbly could be missing out badly,’ I said. ‘One of those guys could have been the next Courtney Pine.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Just about the best British sax player since Tubby Hayes.’
I knew what was coming.
‘Who? I thought your mate Rabbit was the bee’s knees. By the way, did he get off with that drummer Richard last week?’
Ken picks up street talk like Sunday newspaper diarists pick up gossip, late and usually third-hand. ‘Richard,’ for the female of the species, derives from Richard the Third rhyming with ‘bird,’ but was now well past its sell-by date. The current term was ‘Shaz,’ meaning any female over 18 who went to Spain on holiday with boyfriend ‘Chaz.’ It came from green windscreen visors with ‘Sharon & Charles’ printed on, the ‘Charles’ always on the driver’s side. And yes, it is sexist.
‘No, I don’t think he ever did score with that one. You reckon we should ring the day on the calendar?’
Ken snorted. It could have been a laugh, it could have been asthma.
‘How about you? Did the bouncing handbag find you?’
‘Eh?’ Ken is one of the few people who can stun me into being ungrammatical. And incoherent.
‘The two dykes who were in here that same night. One of ‘em came back to see Stubbly and asked after you.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one that didn’t look like Dumbo.’
‘So she saw Stubbly, did she?’ And got my address.
‘Yeah, and she’s been in a few times since. Didn’t think you were into dykes, though.’
‘She’s no dyke, Kenny, and don’t bother to ask how I know. And what do you mean – she’s been in since?’
‘Oh, just to chat with Stubbly. She was in last night, late on. I was just leaving. So she’s
straight, is she?’
I finished my beer.
‘Just take my word for it, Kenny, and don’t lose sleep over it. Would that be around tennish?’ It was worth a try.
‘Naw, much later. Oneish. Most everybody had gone. Everybody had gone, come to think of it, ‘cos Stubbly shut the disco off at midnight.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘No, she came in with Nevil, the new bouncer. Sorry, doorman.’
‘A big feller?’
‘Brick shithouse proportions, squire. You don’t want to dabble with the blonde Richard while she walks in Nevil’s shade.’ He cracked his face into what would be a sneer if it was more human.
‘Or maybe you should mind your own business.’ I started to leave. ‘Oh, Kenny.’
‘Yeah, what?’
‘Why do you call them bouncing handbags?’
‘Cos they looked like a couple of lesbians.’
‘Yeah, I got that far. Why are their handbags supposed to bounce, though?’
‘Because of the big rubber dildos they carry with them.’
Oh yes, of course. How logical. And I had to ask, didn’t I.
Chapter Nine
For a couple of days, I got on with life’s rich pageant without thinking any more of Jo or her bloody credit cards. Why didn’t I just post them to her? I’ve asked myself since a hundred times.
Life with Lisabeth in the flat, which I had expected to be anything but a rich pageant, turned out to be not half bad. This was mainly due to the fact that when she was in residence, I contrived to be out. Still, she kept the place tidier than it had been for months, and she didn’t mistreat Springsteen, or if she did, he didn’t complain about it. And usually he is one of the biggest moaners around when I have guests.