The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  “What was?”

  “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Okay, okay.” He sucked his shining fingers. I edged away in case he had ideas about giving me a congratulatory backslap or convoluted handshake.

  The uniforms who approached the van: set-up.

  The detectives who interviewed me: set-up.

  It was all to test my loyalty. Would I dob Cleon in? Would I mention the DVDs and the industrial estate?

  “And this is the best thing,” Cleon’s teeth flashed. He was tickled by this: “I didn’t even need a piss, man. I was faking it.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I certainly fell for it. You got me.”

  “The big guys are well pleased with you, bro. You didn’t grass; you didn’t squeal. They like that. They want to make more of your, um, what did they call it, devoted service. You’re moving up, guy. They got plans for you.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Hey, I’m not privy to that information, man. All I’m saying’s don’t forget the little people you met on your way up.”

  “I don’t remember any midgets...”

  “You’re funny, man. Can I give you a lift?”

  I declined. The bedsit was only two streets away. I wanted to walk and process this turn of events. I hoped the fresh air would get the chicken shop stench from my clothes.

  The big guys have plans for me... Those big guys were coppers - detectives, no less...

  I took an extra turn of the block, welcoming the cold drizzle on my face and clothes. Fuck knows what kind of state the bathroom would be in.

  I went home - if I may refer to that squalid hole in the ground as home - and waited to learn what those plans might be.

  ***

  More than a month went by. I began to think the big guys had forgotten all about me, what initial enthusiasm they might have had for me and my ‘devoted service’ must have fizzled out. It was pub talk and nothing more.

  Cleon no longer came to collect me. I was no longer required to make pirate copies of DVDs. Cleon was probably doing it himself now, or he had roped another member of his weed-buying public into it.

  I settled into the old routine of shuffling around Brixton, counting off the days until signing-on day. I made my regular trips to Ealing but had nothing to report. I said as much in my sealed messages - how much money had I spent on lockable cash-boxes? - but upon receiving neither acknowledgment nor instruction, I could do nothing else but remind them that I was still out there, still doing my job.

  I made no mention of Whiting and Sprat. What could I say? They had interviewed me and released me. I had seen them in a pub. Hardly hanging offences! I had nothing and no evidence of that nothing. Things appeared to have ground to a halt.

  I was bored of the waiting game. I had to keep reminding myself that I was not genuinely unemployed, that I was actually doing a job. Hours stretched into days and days stretched into - well, you know how it goes.

  “Any changes in your circumstances, Mr Tonkinson?” The advisor at the dole hole asked me in customary robotic fashion.

  “Ah, no.”

  “Are you sure about that, Mr Tonkinson?”

  The unprecedented follow-up question threw me momentarily.

  “Ah, no. I mean, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Mr Tonkinson.”

  One day I was in the market buying fruit. I didn’t buy vegetables - I couldn’t face cooking anything in that room where I slept. In fact I tried to spend as little time in that horrible bedsit as possible. It was an impossible place to keep clean. Black dust from the road coated everything on a daily basis. I had to keep my clothes in bags under the bed. I couldn’t leave any food out, and the cupboards were nesting places for more species of insects than you’d find in your average rain forest. I wrote to the landlord about it but I may as well have sent my Christmas list to Lord Lucan or Glenn Miller.

  Anyway, I was in the market buying fruit, when a hand cupped my elbow and I was led aside by a couple of men.

  “You Tonk?” one breathed in my ear.

  “That’s me.”

  “There’s somebody as wants a word with you.”

  They steered me through an alley that linked the market with a trunk road. There a gleaming Bentley was waiting with its motor idling.

  One of my escorts opened the back door; the other pushed me towards the car, even though I was offering no resistance.

  The Bentley seemed new. Top of the range. The leather interior was cream in colour and soft to the touch but the new car smell had to compete with the thick pall of cigar smoke.

  “Ah, Mr Tonkinson! We meet again!”

  The smoke cleared to reveal the smiling, almost avuncular face of Detective Whiting.

  “Hello,” I muttered.

  The escorts closed the door and we left them on the pavement.

  “Cigar?”

  “Not for me; trying to cut back.”

  “I see. I shouldn’t think jobseeker’s allowance runs to many Cuban cigars.”

  “That’s why I’m cutting back.”

  Whiting laughed. He called me a bright spark. He approved of bright sparks. He needed bright sparks. Bright sparks kept his business affairs ticking over nicely. Bright sparks showed initiative. Bright sparks were good at trouble-shooting and not bothering him with the small stuff. Bright sparks got things done. And, he took an extra long puff and gave an extravagant blow of smoke to emphasise the point, bright sparks knew better than to try and put one over on the hand that feeds them.

  I put a hand to my mouth, trying not to choke.

  “You don’t drive, do you, Mr Tonkinson? Oh, I can’t keep calling you that. What is it, Keith? Gavin?”

  “Actually it’s Kevin. But Tonk is fine. I prefer Tonk.”

  “Can’t imagine why. But you don’t drive, do you, Tonk? Don’t you remember, we did a search on you? You’ve never got your license. Pity.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, I suppose you could be taught but I ain’t got time for that. You will make a very good wingman, Tonk. I’ve seen your handiwork with the DVDs. Meticulous. Organised. Just like a proper wingman ought to be.”

  “I’m sorry - Wingman? I don’t...”

  “Oh, you’ll be shown the ropes; don’t you worry about that. Like I say, you’re a bright spark. You’ll pick it up in no time. No time at all. Here will do, Phillip.”

  The car pulled up to the kerb.

  “Smooth ride, ain’t it? Ain’t it a smooth ride? You hardly noticed you was moving; tell the truth. That’s how I like it. No bumps in the road. You ain’t going to be a bump in the road, are you, Tonk?”

  “N- no, no, sir.”

  “Good lad. Go on then; get out. We’ll be in touch.”

  I was about to fumble with the door handle when the door opened. The driver, whose face I hadn’t seen, had nipped out to open it for me.

  “Thanks, um, Phillip.”

  He was already on his way back to his seat.

  “Well, close the fucking door then!” Whiting complained from inside. I tried not to slam it. The Bentley pulled away, purring like a contented lion.

  I looked around. I had no clue where I was.

  A symbolic gesture of Whiting’s power? He was in control -well, technically, Phillip was in the driving seat but you know what I mean.

  I looked around for clues, a tube station anything, and began my long journey home.

  ***

  Wingman. Wing man. WING man. Wing MAN... The term puzzled me. I had only heard it before in those rubbish American films where college kids (who each look 35 if they’re a day) try to get laid. The handsomest one will recruit one of his friends, a goofier one, to be his so-called w
ingman. It’s never clear what the duties of this office entail. I suspect it’s something to do with distracting the prettiest girl’s chubbier best friend.

  None of this seemed to fit the context of Whiting’s enterprises - not that I had a clear idea of what they were.

  Wing. Man.

  Perhaps flying was involved. Perhaps I was going on a plane.

  Visions of silent movie footage flashed in my head. of someone in a Biggles helmet, standing on the wing of a bi-plane, the old-fashioned kind with the propeller on the nose like a wind-up toy.

  That couldn’t be it either.

  I lay awake, trying to puzzle it out.

  When morning came, I did my best in the hellhole of a bathroom to make myself presentable. I had an inkling Whiting was keen to get started and to get me involved. He wouldn’t want me sitting idle, thinking things through or, more vitally, talking to anyone about this offer of employment.

  Had I been on this case only twelve months earlier I could have made use of the public baths up the road. I could have showered. I could have taken some exercise. But, the powers that be had deemed it a right and proper cause of action to close the facilities down. Now, empty and unloved, the building stands neglected; its art deco style earned it a place on the protected buildings list, so it cannot cede its place to another business, another use. How these idiots come to these decisions is beyond my ability to comprehend. It’s like they don’t want ordinary people to have anything.

  It’s no wonder crime flourishes in places like this. I’m not suggesting a quick swim every now and then would sort out things like knife crime and aggravated assault. Things are more complex than that.

  This backdrop made it easier for me to fit in. I was there to clean up the place - in the absence of public baths.

  Heh.

  My clothes were clean at least. A visit to the laundrette sorted that; tedious hours of sitting there watching the machine go through its hypnotic cycle, while inane banter and rubbish music on the radio vied with the churning hum of the motors as to which would induce a headache in me first. If I had been myself, I would have taken a book or a newspaper. But in this guise, I took nothing. Kevin Tonkinson is not a big reader. His mind is not exercised and entertained. He only has his weekly purchase of a small amount of weed to lift him out of the doldrums, the hopeless rut, the lack of options. I had to seem ready for anything Whiting might ask me to do. I had to seem like I had no other choice. I had to seem hopeless, listless and with nowhere else to turn. I had proven I could work, with my efforts at the DVD factory; I had demonstrated my trustworthiness in my interview with the cops - I hadn’t guessed it was really a job interview with Whiting and Sprat.

  Now I knew there were definitely police involved - well, not just involved but running the business - things had become more serious. More dangerous. How many coppers were involved? How far did this thing go?

  In the street, a car honked its horn. I locked the bedsit carefully - not because there was anything valuable in there but to keep the homeless out - and climbed the mossy steps up to street level. No beautiful Bentley this time. A non-descript boxy thing, old, cheap to insure - No point sending a good motor to do the dirty work, I supposed. I don’t know; I decided not to try to understand what was going on until I had more details.

  Phillip the Bentley driver nodded to me. I got in and buckled up.

  “Morning!” I said.

  Phillip sucked his teeth. He remained silent as he drove us eastwards along the river. We went through an upmarket development of expensive apartments stacked on top of each other like a colossal game of Jenga, and further on, until the buildings became more industrial, more abandoned, more derelict.

  He took us through a gap in a wire fence and into a yard of gravel with clumps of grass poking up like mini-oases in a barren landscape. There was a hangar, a huge structure with a corrugated roof that had also been colonised by moss and rust. We drove into this building. Phillip stopped the car but kept the engine running.

  After a few minutes he told me to get out.

  “Oh, ah, um, right. Cheers.” I got out. He reversed out and was gone.

  In front of me were two enormous lorries, the kind that have containers on the back. You could fit my bedsit in one of those containers and probably the flat above as well. They had European-style number plates and the steering wheels were on the left of their cabs. I walked along the length of one. There was no sign of any company logo or indication of ownership. They were also very clean. There was not a speck of dust on the back and therefore no humorous message written by a wag’s finger. No ‘Clean me’ or juvenile representation of a cock and balls.

  The lorries seemed to me to be in pristine condition and well-maintained, in contrast to the hangar which looked like it might topple at any second if anyone sneezed.

  Someone coughed.

  Whiting was there. I hadn’t heard his Bentley purr its way in. I crunched my way over the gravel to join him at the bonnet of his car.

  “Morning.” I nodded over my shoulder, “Nice lorries.”

  Whiting grunted. Another man stepped out of the shadows. He could have been there all along for all I’d noticed. I scolded myself for being so far in character I’d let my copper instincts down.

  “This is Tyke,” Whiting jerked his head towards this new arrival: a tall man with wide shoulders and a moustache that would have rocketed him to fame in a 1970s porn career.

  Tyke’s equally enthusiastic eyebrows twitched upwards. I knew better than to offer my hand.

  “Tyke...” I repeated. “That’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s the only one you’re getting,” Whiting snapped. “Like you have room to talk, bloody Tonk.”

  It was a fair point.

  “Tyke here don’t talk much so I’m here to show you the ropes and tell you what’s what. And I’ll be quick, like. You’ve got a run to do today and back again tonight. Same again tomorrow and the next day, all being well.”

  “A run?”

  Whiting gave me a glance that warned against interrupting.

  “It’s as simple as pissing your pants. You will ride alongside Tyke, who will do all the driving. You will make the delivery, handling all the - well, I won’t say paperwork - the whadycallit, the human interactions. Because, like I say, Tyke don’t talk much.”

  I nodded. The nature of being a wingman was becoming apparent. I was sort of relieved I wasn’t going to have to chat up any pudgy girls.

  “Tyke knows where he’s going, so you just need to sit tight until you get there. You will supervise the loading of the, um, return cargo. Couldn’t be simpler. You’re looking confused. Why are you looking confused when I’ve just fucking explained it to you?”

  I gaped.

  “Just wondering, er, boss. About um, payment.”

  “No money changes hands. You won’t have to touch a penny. It’s all taken care of.”

  He gave me a glare that suggested I was a fucking idiot.

  “No, no; I mean, for me. What do I get out of it?”

  His scowl melted into something a little less unpleasant.

  “Now you’re thinking!” he laughed. “You’ll be paid handsomely for every complete run you make. We’ll negotiate the amount when you get back tonight, when you can tell me what you think you should get when you’ve seen what the job’s all about. Then we’ll take it from there. I can’t say fairer than that. Tyke’s been with me a while and he’s got no complaints; have you, Tyke?”

  Tyke didn’t even blink.

  “Well, go on then. That lorry won’t run itself.”

  Tyke headed for one of the lorries. I nodded to Whiting and followed.

  “And there’s five hundred quid in the dashboard,” Whiting called after us. “You don’t touch it. That’s for emergencies. I shall check.”r />
  Wondering what kind of emergencies he might mean, I climbed up into the cab, not as nimbly as I would have liked and strapped myself in. Tyke started the engine. The whole cab began to vibrate. We moved out into the daylight.

  The Bentley was already gone.

  ***

  The journey took us less than two hours. We reached our destination before lunch time.

  Southampton!

  Place of my birth and childhood. I hadn’t been back since leaving Hendon - there was nothing to bring me there. Dad had retired and he and Mum had bought a rather grand place in Warwickshire. All my friends had moved on - as far as I knew. I’d lost touch - which is a good thing when you’re going undercover. You have to isolate yourself. You can’t live a double life, with one set of people here and another set of people there.

  Tyke parked on an industrial estate, much the same as industrial estates the whole country over. I made to get out but he shook his head. He pointed to the clock on the dashboard.

  We waited.

  He had had the foresight, seasoned driver as he was, to bring a packed lunch. He offered me a bite of his pork pie. I declined, not least because his filthy fingers had been all over it and the indentations of his yellow teeth were clearly visible. My stomach flip-flopped. There was nowhere around to buy anything. There was no one around at all.

  Tyke finished his repast and stroked the crumbs from his moustache.

  We waited. All bloody afternoon we waited.

  Had our appointment been missed? Was someone running late? If not, why had Whiting despatched us so early in the day?

  It wasn’t until the sky began to darken that I got some of my questions answered.

  A man appeared at the window. He could have been Tyke’s brother or a cousin. Perhaps the shared taste in facial hair exaggerated the resemblance. I opened the door and dropped down. He looked me up and down and then raised his bushy eyebrows at Tyke who had also climbed out of the cab. Tyke nodded. I was accepted.

  Tyke opened the back doors while the new man unfastened a padlock on a nearby storage unit. A murmur of voices came from within but a quick pounding on the metal door with a length of wood soon reduced this to silence. Keeping the wood close to his chest, the new man began to usher people from the storage unit and into the back of the lorry.