If I was a detective investigating a case I guess I’d want to start by looking at the scene of the crime. In this case I suppose it would be Hassan and Amina’s house since that’s where the call came from and where Amina was when I rang back the next day. Assuming, of course, it was Amina who took the call. (That’s a new angle, I hadn’t thought of that before now.) If I’m to keep a low profile I can hardly expect to go knocking at the door but (still thinking detective) I could organize a stakeout, see what might be going on, who’s coming and going. For a minute I wonder about involving Ollie in this plan since he doesn’t seem to have any objection to waiting around for ages, but I quickly abandon that idea because he looks so damn conspicuous. I’ll have to see what I can do on my own.
Six hours later, cold and practically brain-dead with boredom, I’m wishing I hadn’t been so dismissive of Oliver. The only thing that has kept me here so long is that everything started out so well. I’d prepared properly, buying an A-Z to get a good fix on the location, a thermos flask and supermarket sandwiches to keep me going, and a miniature bottle of Macallan to give myself as a reward if I make it to midnight. It was still light when I set off in the car and I found Prince Albert Road fairly easily since I already knew how to get to Springhill.
Prince Albert Road is a long street of terraced housing running behind and parallel to Springhill Gate, or The Gate as it’s locally-known, where takeaways, delicatessens and ethnic food stores compete for space with a couple of off-licences, bookies, a laundrette and a general dealer, plus a couple of premises with serious-looking grids guarding windows stacked mainly with electrical items. I take it these are some form of pawnbroker or money-lending operation. While I was still in recce mode I parked next to the shops on The Gate (single yellow line but nobody else seemed to care so I chanced it) and walked round the corner to see what I could see. There is a narrow alley running between the backs of the shops and the back yards of Prince Albert Road, but it was obvious from the comings and goings that the residents generally use the other side where little steps lead up to the front doors.
It turned out to be a good time of day to be checking my spot. Some of the people who work along The Gate must park for the duration on Prince Albert Road. Quite a few of them were leaving work and going back to their cars at the same time as I arrived, so not only was I able to walk along and find out which house was 110 without looking suspicious, I even got the chance a few minutes later to go and collect my car and repark it in a space somebody was leaving, a nice discreet spot just twenty yards or so over the road where I could get a decent view of the front of the house.
That wasn’t the end of my good luck in the early part of my watch. It still hadn’t turned six o’ clock when I caught my first sight of Amina and her little boy. I guessed it was her as soon as she came round the corner wheeling a buggy. The little one in the pushchair looked about the right age and the mother had the same trim build as the woman I’d seen in the newspaper photograph. The only thing different, and this surprised me, was that she wasn’t so wrapped up as she was in the picture, or in the way that most of the Asian women round here seem to be. No head-covering or long robes. She had a coat and scarf on, sure, but it was pretty cold; this was typical western dress for the North East weather. It was definitely Amina, though; she confirmed that by bumping the buggy backwards up the three steps and letting herself in at the front door with a key.
And that was the end of the excitement at number 110. Tell a lie; just over two hours ago a light went on in the upstairs room with the little window, I saw a woman’s hand closing a curtain, and the light went dim, but not off completely. Baby being put to bed, I guess. Since then, nothing.
The whole street is very quiet now. Until about eight o’ clock I’d been able to watch Amina’s neighbours coming back in their cars (and a couple of vans), presumably from work, gradually filling up the spaces that had been left by the Gate workers going home, like some kind of unofficial time-share parking operation. Most of them were Asians of some description. Nobody seemed to take any notice of the TT – I guess there’s always the odd itinerant vehicle in the street, so mine being there wouldn’t be unusual – and they obviously didn’t notice me sitting behind my tinted windows. A few (men on their own, some couples, a smattering of older children) have since come back out of their homes and either climbed into cars to drive off or walked round the corner towards the main road, but in all this activity nobody else has arrived at or left from Amina’s house.
I may see some more movement in the street as people return from wherever they’ve been, but in the last half-hour the only humans I’ve set eyes on have been two teenage lads who walked past the car on my side of the road and crossed on their way to The Gate. I felt like sticking my head out of the car and asking if they’d bring me back a takeaway (I ate my sandwiches long ago for something to do) but instead I just watched them until they faded into the darkness.
I’ve had the car radio on low for company since the street fell quiet. Now I turn it up a notch or two as it’s getting near to ten o’ clock. I might as well check on my new rival while I’m sitting here. Will Ollie and his mam still be tuning in to the show? Perhaps they’ll transfer their loyalties to Simon Barnes and his sidekick Marni. Barnie and Marni, the future according to mystic Meg. Agh, bollocks with waiting till midnight, I’m going to have that whisky now.
The lead story on the ten o’ clock news is about the housing minister caught not only with his pants down but with his wrists chained with handcuffs around the waste water pipe in a public cubicle. These are the people who are making our laws, somehow getting our votes – all you can do is shake your head, and have a smirk, obviously. Nothing else special in the bulletin (my suicide bomb theory has died a death, to coin a phrase). I’m not sure I agree with the weatherman who says it’s going to be a mild night for the time of year - he hasn’t been sitting in a car with the engine off for nearly five hours. I’m professionally interested to discover there’s a new ad on for a dotcom dating agency – wonder why they see my show as a good slot for it and whether they’ve booked up for a decent block contract or just testing the water. Then it’s the sig and here’s Simon, too quick on the mix, and attacking instead of riding in; sign of a novice.
“Good evening, good evening, Simon Barnes here again on the Nightwatch.” (Ah, the brand queen has found her willing lackey.) “I’m just about getting used to coming to work in the dark.” (Well, don’t get too used to it, pal, I’m not done fighting yet. And what happened to the courtesy of sitting in for Marc Niven?) “Tell you the strangest thing, though, it’s just how quiet it is around here at this time. There’s me and the lovely Marni,” (flutter, flutter from Marni) “sitting here all on our ownsome and the rest of the building is in complete darkness. Ooh-err. It’s quite spooky, in’t it, Marn?”
“It is, Simon, yes.”
Well, there’s a thing, he’s plugged Marni’s talkback into the output. He thinks he’s Chris Moyles. And what’s with Marn for Christ’s sake?
“We quite like feeling spooky, though. So here’s a little challenge for you all tonight. Can you get us just a little bit scared with your tales of ghostly encounters? Things that go bump in the night. We’re not looking for Roald Dahl tales or, what’s-he-called, Edward Allen Poe.” (Edgar, dope.) “Just your own little stories of ghostly encounters you might have had yourself, or maybe you’ve heard from a friend or a relative. That little touch of the eerie and unexplained…”
Simon adds a touch of reverb as he says this, and a creaking door effect behind. Quite effective, if I’m honest. But I used this theme in October. Best for Halloween, not a Monday night in February.
“Tell you what, we’ll get that started in about fifteen minutes, so if you want to be part of ‘things that go bump in the night’ give Marni a call on the usual number but of course we’re open right now for anything you might want to chat about, or maybe get off your chest. Nick in Buddle is going to be our first caller right
after this from The Haunted. Hey, we don’t just throw this programme together, you know…”
I switch off the car radio, gulp down the rest of the whisky miniature and all but throw it through my front windscreen. Instead I smack the dashboard in frustration. I shouldn’t have tuned in to the show – it’s just got my hackles up again. Not Simon’s fault, really – he’s a fairly inoffensive type, bit of a yes-man which is why Meg likes him – but everything’s adding up to the realisation that I’m being eased out of my own programme. Calling it Nightwatch after I specifically said… Not even mentioning my name… Bringing Marni in on-air. It’s so deliberately not me, that’s what’s so bloody irritating.
I sit in the silence for the next three-quarters of an hour, staring down the dark street, sullenly plotting revenge, until boredom gradually sets in once more, and with it a growing awareness of how uncomfortable I am. It’s not just that it’s cold or that my backside is numb with being so long in this car seat, the fact is I haven’t been to the loo since I left the flat. Maybe it’s that little tot of whisky that’s brought me to the brim, who knows, but I suddenly, urgently need to pee.
I’m drumming my heels on the floor of the car even while I’m considering my options. Knocking at Amina’s door and asking to use her facilities is not one of them. Nor is opening the car door and aiming into the gutter; Sod’s Law tells me that, as quiet as it has been, the moment I start relieving myself in the street is the moment someone will come along and make a scene about it, blowing my cover. I’m going to have to find a public convenience somewhere, and quick.
Do I lock up the car here and walk? That leaves me open to being seen and could take too long since I don’t know how far I might have to go. Best to take the car and get back as soon as possible, in time to check out what might be happening during that hour or so when people are often on their way home from one place or another as late evening turns to night.
I’ve been here so long that pulling away from the kerb is like ripping myself off Velcro but at the same time it’s good to get some different muscles going and it does relieve the pressure on my bladder a little, like a fretful baby being soothed by the sensation of movement. That thought makes me look to the upstairs window as I pass Amina’s house in the car. All still and peaceful there.
Springhill Gate is positively bustling by contrast. There’s a group of Asian youths gathered at the corner, joshing and joking with each other. The takeaways seem to be doing reasonable business at this time. They are all too small to be likely to offer a public toilet so I drive past them and past the pub opposite – too close to Prince Albert Road to keep me inconspicuous. What I have in mind is the railway station, which is only a couple of minutes drive and has a Gents that I can nip into easily.
Except that when I get there I find the toilets locked. An Out of Order notice is stuck on the door with Sellotape so grubby it could have been there for months. In the bottom corner of the notice somebody has scrawled Oh fuck with a blue biro. My sentiments exactly.
Demanding release, my bladder starts pounding at me again. Now I’m desperate, ready to do it against a wall, anywhere I have a chance of avoiding arrest. As I waddle in real pain back to the car park I see that the road running past the side exit goes down under an old railway arch, so it must fetch up round the back of the station where there’s bound to be a quiet spot, some sooty corner where I can piss long and thankfully into the darkness. I struggle into the car and head that way.
What I find when I get past the railway arch is not exactly a hidey-hole but perhaps the nearest thing – a squat, smoke-blackened public house with the filthiest windows I’ve ever clapped eyes on. It makes the place where Ollie and I had our bar meal seem like a trendy bistro by comparison. Even though I’ve been in some dives, I wouldn’t normally dream of setting foot in such a five-star dump, but this is an emergency. I swing the TT hard right to park on the street a few yards away from the entrance, make sure the car is double-locked, and shoulder my way through the grimy swing doors into the saloon bar.
I’d hoped to dash straight into the bogs, urinate for England, and leg it as fast as I could get out of there, but late as it is there’s not a soul in the place to screen me from the pugnacious bloke behind the bar. He stops flicking through what looks like a nude calendar lying flat on the counter, turns to see who’s making the racket coming in and chucks out his chin at me, obviously expecting an order. I hesitate, distracted by my straining bladder and by the sight of the dirtiest tea-towel I’ve ever seen, hanging over the near set of pumps. Eventually, because I’m sure he’s setting himself to swipe his great paw across the back of my head if I don’t speak soon, I manage to blurt out, “Guinness, have you? Er… not draught...” (panicking about dirty lines). “Bottle. If you’ve got such a thing.”
By way of reply he sways backwards from the bar and starts scanning the floor underneath, without actually moving from the spot.
“I’ll just, while you’re looking…” I say, pointing at a brown door in the opposite corner which I take to be the toilets since the only other door is where I came in. He ignores me so I interpret this as permission and make my way through to the Gents.
I spend so long there - with so much hosing out of me that I’m able to pilot some crafty smoker’s cigarette-butt from one end of the urinal chute to the other - even this sloth of a barman has had time to locate a bottle of Guinness, lever the cap off (with his teeth, I imagine) and pour the black stuff into a glass that I’m hoping he hasn’t just wiped out with that tea-towel. He has taken as much care with the pouring as I’d expect, so the froth is cascading over the top of the glass like Etna erupting. I pay up and lift the glass, trying to keep the suds from dripping onto my shoes as I weigh up the health risks involved in drinking from it. I have no choice, though. The barman is watching my every move as if he’s waiting to be insulted so he can have a legitimate excuse to kill me. I’ll just have to drink up as fast as I dare without offending him so I can skedaddle and get back to the relative safety of spying on the residents of Prince Albert Road.
I’m about halfway through what’s left of the Guinness in the glass when mine host speaks to me for the first time. “You’ll be round here on the tap, then?”
“Sorry?”
“Along the road. You’ll have to watch your back, like. There’s been fuzz poking about lately.”
“Right. Thanks.” I drain my Guinness, still not sure what he’s driving at until I park the dirty glass on the bar and try to make my escape while he turns his attention back to his calendar. He calls after me.
“Ask for the black hooer if she’s there. Nigerian. There’s a lot won’t touch her but she gives good head, I’ll tip ya.”
The idea of picking up any tart behind the railway station, not to mention one specially recommended by a greasy fat bloke in a filthy pub, makes me nauseous on top of the suspect stout lying heavy in my gut. In the car I open the window, trying to gulp in some clean air before I move off, but the air here smells as if it’s laced with lead. There’s a haze around the orange street lamps that line my side of the road and I can just make out some dark shapes under the fourth one, a hundred yards or so in front of where I’m parked. The ladies of the night.
I’ve never been with a prostitute, never looked for one. To be honest, just the thought of men that do makes me curl my nose up. It’s grotesque, like the leer of the barman in the pub, and his dirty finger-ends smearing the pages of a nude calendar. Paying for sex has to be the ultimate admission of failure. It’s abject, reminds me of the bloke in the Dire Straits song ogling the dancer who’s pushing her arse out on the telly, and despising rock stars for having everything he hasn’t. Money for nothing and your chicks for free.
Suppose I’ve been lucky, really. Nothing like a rock star, obviously, but I’ve done OK. Alright, I’ve had trouble with women, relationship problems definitely, but sexually, you know… I’ve had my share. Till recently, anyway, and that’s just a blip. If I seriously put m
y mind to it I could easily go out on the pull, no big deal, I wouldn’t have to pay for it.
Watching the figures in the distance, my mind goes back to the slip of a girl who tried to run away from the lorry park. What was that all about? Is she here, maybe, waiting at the kerb for the next john, not because she wants to but because somebody, some pimp, is making her do it? Surely he can’t be watching her all the time. Once she gets into somebody’s car, can’t she just ask them to drop her off somewhere she wants to go? Even if she has to do it one more time to keep them sweet.
I should be making a three-point turn right now and retracing my route to Prince Albert Road to see my shift out until midnight at least. But when I start the car I drive forward without too much conscious thought about it, just changing quietly up into second, then third and following the lights along the road back of the station. This girl has been locked in my brain since I saw her tearing off her shoes to run faster. I just want to see if she’s among this group of working girls, that’s all, I don’t have a plan.
It’s pretty gloomy even under the street lights and I have to change down into second, slowing the car and searching through the side window as I come up to where the women are standing, trying to pick out my little runaway. There seem to be about half a dozen and they break up their cluster when my headlights are on them, stringing along the pavement in front of me, a couple posing like mannequins, others parading coquettishly, one even sweeping her coat away and brazenly jutting her backside half-over the kerb, pouting at me over her shoulder. (Look at that mama, she got it stickin’ in the camera...) I look beyond her to where there seems to be another standing back in the shadows, who could be the one. I slope across the steering wheel, peering, car slowly rolling, when the passenger door opens quickly from the outside and I have to brake hard to stop it swinging against a lamp post.
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