The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Anyway, she gave me that look. Rubbed up against me. Let me see the tops of her tits down the front of her low cut T-shirt. Made me blush. Then made me angry cos I blushed. I told her I had to go, that I couldn’t afford a drink. My Jobseeker’s Allowance was gone an Baz hadn’t come up with any work for me.

  She said that she was gettin together with a few of the lads after the pub. Was I interested?

  I said no. And went home.

  Well not straight home. There was somethin I had to do first. Somethin I couldn’t tell the rest of them about.

  There’s a part of the estate you just DON’T GO. At least not by yourself. Not after dark. Unless you were tooled up. Unless you want somethin. An I wanted somethin.

  It was dark there. Shadows on shadows. Hip hop an reggae came from open windows. The square was deserted. I walked, crunched on gravel, broken glass. I felt eyes watchin me. Unseen ones. Wished I’d brought my blade. Still, I had my muscles. I’d worked on my body since I joined the party, got good an strong. I was never like that at school. Always the weak one. Not any more.

  I was kind of safe, I knew that. As long as I did what I was here to do I wouldn’t get attacked. Because this was where the niggers lived.

  I went to the usual corner an waited. I heard him before I saw him. Comin out of the dark, along the alleyway, takin his time, baggy jeans lung low on his hips, Calvins showin at the top. Vest hangin loose. Body ripped an buff.

  Aaron. The Ebony Warrior.

  Aaron. Drug dealer.

  I swallowed hard.

  He came up close, looked at me. The usual look, smilin, like he knows somethin I don’t. Eye to eye. I could smell his warm breath on my cheek. I felt uneasy. The way I always do with him.

  Jez, he said slowly, an held his arms out. See anythin you want?

  I swallowed hard again. My throat was really dry.

  You know what I want. My voice sounded ragged.

  He laughed his private laugh. I know exactly, he said, an waited.

  His breath was all sweet with spliff an alcohol. He kept starin at me. I dug my hand into my jacket pocket. Brought out money. Nearly the last I had, but he didn’t know that.

  He shook his head, brought out a clingfilm wrap from his back pocket.

  Enjoy, he said.

  It’s not for me an you know it.

  He smiled again. Wanna try some? Some skunk, maybe? Now? With me?

  I don’t do drugs. I hardly drink. An he knows it. He was tauntin me. He knew what my answer would be.

  Whatever, he said. Off you go then, back to your little Hitler world.

  I said nothing. I never could when he talked to me.

  Then he did somethin he’d never done before. He touched my arm.

  You shouldn’t hate, he said. Life too short for that, y’get me?

  I looked down at his fingers. The first black fingers I’d ever had on my body. I should have thrown them off. Told him not to touch me, called him a filthy nigger. Hit him.

  But I didn’t. His fingers felt warm. And strong.

  What should I do, then? I could hardly hear my own voice.

  Love, he said.

  I turned round, walked away.

  I heard his laugh behind me.

  At home, dad was asleep on the sofa. Snorin an fartin. I went into Tom’s room. Empty. I left the bundle by his bedside an went out.

  I hadn’t been lyin to Courtney. It was nearly the last of me money. I didn’t like buyin stuff for Tom, but what could I do? It was either that or he went out on the street to sell somethin, himself even, to get money for stuff. I had no choice.

  I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. Things on me mind but I didn’t know what. Must be the elections. That was it. I lay starin a the ceilin, then realized me cock was hard. I took it in me hand. This’ll get me to sleep, I thought. I thought hard about Courtney. An all those lads.

  That did the trick.

  The next few days were a bit blurry. Nothin much happened. It was all waitin. For the election. For Baz to find me some more work. For Tom to run out of heroin again an need another hit.

  Eventually Thursday rolled round and it was election day. I went proudly off to the pollin station at the school I used to go to. Looked at the kids’ names on the walls. Hardly one of them fuckin English. Made me do that cross all the more harder.

  I stayed up all night watchin the election. Tom was out, me dad fell asleep.

  Steve got in.

  I went fuckin mental.

  I’d been savin some cans for a celebration an I went at them. I wished I could have been in the St George with the rest but I knew us footsoldiers couldn’t. But, God, how I WANTED TO. That was where I should have been. Who I should have been with. That was where I BELONGED.

  But I waited. My time would come.

  I stayed in all the next day. Lost track of time.

  Put the telly on. Local news. They reported what had happened. Interviewed some Paki. Called himself a community leader. Said he couldn’t be held responsible if members of his community armed themselves and roamed the streets in gangs looking for BNP members. His people had a right to protect themselves.

  They switched to the studio. An there was Derek. Arguin with some cunt from Cambridge. Least that’s what he looked like. Funny, I thought people were supposed to look bigger on TV. Derek just looked smaller. Greasy hair. Fat face. Big nose. Almost like a Jew, I thought. Then felt guilty for thinkin it.

  It’s what the people want, he said, the people have spoken. They’re sick an tired of a government that is ignorin the views of the common man and woman. An the common man an woman have spoken. We are not extremists. We are representin what the average, decent person in this country thinks but doesn’t dare say because of political correctness. Because of what they fear will happen to them.

  I felt better hearin him say that. Then they turned to the Cambridge cunt. He was a psychologist or psychiatrist or sociologist or somethin. I thought here it comes. He’s gonna start arguin back an then Derek’s gonna go for him. But he didn’t. This sociologist just looked calm. Smiled, almost.

  It’s sad, he said. It’s sad so few people realize. As a society it seems we base our responses on either love or hate, thinking they’re opposites. But they’re not. They’re the same. The opposite of love is not hate. It’s indifference.

  They looked at him.

  People only hate what they fear within themselves. What they fear themselves becoming. What they secretly love. A fascist – he gestured to Derek – will hate democracy. Plurality. Anything else – he shrugged – is indifference.

  I would have laughed out loud if there had been anyone else there with me.

  But there wasn’t. So I said nothing.

  A weekend of lyin low. Difficult, but had to be done. Don’t give them a target, Derek had said. Don’t give them an excuse.

  By Monday I was rarin to get out the flat. I was even lookin forward to goin to work.

  First I went down the shoppin centre. Wearin me best skinhead gear. Don’t know what I expected, the whole world to have changed or somethin, but it was the same as it had been. I walked round proudly, an I could feel people lookin at me. I smiled. They knew. Who I was. What I stood for. They were the people who’d voted.

  There was love in their eyes. I was sure of it.

  At least, that’s what it felt like.

  Still in a good mood, I went to see Baz. Ready to start work.

  An he dropped a bombshell.

  Sorry mate, I can’t use you no more.

  Why not?

  He just looked at me like the answer was obvious. When I looked like I didn’t understand, he had to explain it to me.

  Cos of what’s happened. Cos of what you believe in. No don’t get me wrong, he said, you know me. I agree, there’s too many Pakis an asylum seekers over here. But a lot of those Pakis are my customers. An, well, look at you. I can hardly bring you along to some Paki’s house an let you work for him, could I?

  So sorry,
mate, that’s that.

  I was gutted. I walked out of there knowin I had no money. Knowin that, once again, the Pakis had taken it from me.

  I looked around the shoppin centre. I didn’t see love any more. I saw headlines on the papers:

  RACIST COUNCILLOR

  VOTED IN TO DAGENHAM

  Then underneath:

  KICK THIS SCUM OUT

  I couldn’t believe it. They should be welcomin us with open arms. This was supposed to be the start of the revolution. Instead it was the usual shit. I just knew the Pakis were behind it. An the Jews. They own all the newspapers.

  I had nowhere to go. I went to the St George but this was early mornin an there was no one in. None of my people.

  So I just walked round all day. Thinkin. Not gettin anythin straight. Gettin everythin more twisted.

  I thought of goin to the St George. They’d be there. Celebratin. Then there was goin to be a late night march round the streets. Let the residents, the concerned populace, know they were safe in their houses. Let everyone know who ruled the streets.

  But I didn’t feel like it.

  So I went home.

  An wished I hadn’t.

  Tom was there. He looked like shit. Curled up on his bed. He’d been sick. Shit himself.

  Whassamatter? I said. D’you wanna doctor?

  He managed to shake his head. No.

  What then?

  Gear. Cold turkey. Cramps.

  An he was sick again.

  I stood back, not wantin it to go on me.

  Please, he gasped, you’ve got to get us some gear . . . please . . .

  I’ve got no money, I said.

  Please . . .

  An his eyes, pleadin with me. What could I do? He was my brother. My flesh an blood. An you look after your own.

  I’ll not be long, I said.

  I left the house.

  Down to the part of the estate where you don’t go. I walked quickly, went to the usual spot. Waited.

  Eventually he came. Stood before me.

  Back so soon? Aaron said. Then smiled. Can’t keep away, can you?

  I need some gear, I said.

  Aaron waited.

  But I’ve got no money.

  Aaron chuckled. Then no sale.

  Please. It’s for . . . it’s urgent.

  Aaron looked around. There was that smile again.

  How much d’you want it? he said.

  I looked at him.

  How much? he said again. An put his hand on my arm.

  He moved in closer to me. His mouth right by my ear. He whispered, tickling me. My heart was beatin fit to burst. My legs felt shaky.

  You’re like me, he said.

  I tried to speak. It took me two attempts. No I’m not, I said.

  Oh yes you are. We do what our society says we have to do. Behave like we’re supposed to. Hide our true feelings. What we really are.

  I tried to shake my head. But I couldn’t.

  You know you are. He got closer. You know I am.

  An kissed me. Full on the mouth.

  I didn’t throw him off. Didn’t call him a filthy nigger. Didn’t hit him. I kissed him back.

  Then it was hands all over each other. I wanted to touch him, feel his body, his beautiful, black body. Feel his cock. He did the same to me. That python was inside me, ready to come out. I loved the feeling.

  I thought of school. How I was made to feel different. Hated them for it. Thought of Ian. What we had got up to. I had loved him. With all my heart. An he loved me. But we got found out. An that kind of thing is frowned upon, to say the least. So I had to save my life. Pretend it was all his doing. I gave him up. I never saw him again. I never stopped loving him.

  I loved what Aaron was doing to me now. It felt wrong. But it felt so right.

  I had him in my hand, wanted him in my body. Was ready to take him.

  When there was a noise.

  We had been so into each other we hadn’t heard them approach.

  So this is where you are, they said. Fuckin a filthy nigger when you should be with us.

  The footsoldiers. On patrol. An tooled up.

  I looked at Aaron. He looked terrified.

  Look, I said, it was his fault. I had to get some gear for my brother . . .

  They weren’t listening. They were starin at us. Hate in their eyes. As far as they were concerned I was no longer one of them. I was the enemy now.

  You wanna run nigger lover? Or you wanna stay here an take your beatin with your boyfriend? The words spat out.

  I zipped up my jeans. Looked at Aaron.

  They caught the look.

  Now run, the machine said, hate in its eyes. But from now on, you’re no better than a nigger or a Paki.

  I ran.

  Behind me, heard them layin into Aaron.

  I kept running.

  I couldn’t go home. I had no gear for Tom. I couldn’t stay where I was. I might not be so lucky next time.

  So I ran.

  I don’t know where.

  After a while I couldn’t run any more. I slowed down, tried to get me breath back. Too tired to run anymore. To fight back.

  I knew who I was. Finally. I knew WHAT I WAS.

  An it was a painful truth. It hurt.

  Then from the end of the street I saw them. Pakis. A gang of them. Out protecting their own community. They saw me. Started running.

  I was too tired. I couldn’t outrun them. I stood up, waited for them. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t a threat, that I didn’t hate them.

  But they were screaming, shouting, hate in their eyes.

  A machine. Cogs an clangs an fists an hammers.

  I waited, smiled.

  Love shining in my own eyes.

  JUST FRIENDS

  John Harvey

  These things I remember about Diane Adams: the way a lock of her hair would fall down across her face and she would brush it back with a quick tilt of her head and a flick of her hand; the sliver of green, like a shard of glass, high in her left eye; the look of surprise, pleasure and surprise, when she spoke to me that first time – “And you must be, Jimmy, right?”: the way she lied.

  It was November, late in the month and the night air bright with cold that numbed your fingers even as it brought a flush of color to your cheeks. London, the winter of fifty-six, and we were little more than kids then, Patrick, Val and myself, though if anyone had called us that we’d have likely punched him out, Patrick or myself at least, Val in the background, careful, watching.

  Friday night it would have been, a toss-up between the Flamingo and Studio 51, and on this occasion Patrick had decreed the Flamingo: this on account of a girl he’d started seeing, on account of Diane. The Flamingo a little more cool, a little more style; more likely to impress. Hip, I suppose, the word we would have used.

  All three of us had first got interested in jazz at school, the trad thing first, British guys doing a earnest imitation of New Orleans; then, for a spell, it was the Alex Welsh band we followed around, a hard-driving crew with echoes of Chicago, brittle and fast, Tuesday nights the Lyttelton place in Oxford Street, Sundays a club out at Wood Green. It was Val who got us listening to the more modern stuff, Parker 78s on Savoy, Paul Desmond, the Gerry Mulligan Quartet.

  From somewhere, Patrick got himself a trumpet and began practicing scales, and I kicked off playing brushes on an old suitcase while saving for the down payment on a set of drums. Val, we eventually discovered, already had a saxophone – an old Selmer with a dented bell and a third of the keys held on by rubber bands: it had once belonged to his old man. Not only did he have a horn, but he knew how to play. Nothing fancy, not yet, not enough to go steaming through the changes of Cherokee or I Got Rhythm the way he would later, in his pomp, but tunes you could recognize, modulations you could follow.

  The first time we heard him, really heard him, the cellar room below a greasy spoon by the Archway, somewhere the owner let us hang out for the price of a few coffees, the o
ccasional pie and chips, we wanted to punch him hard. For holding out on us the way he had. For being so damned good.

  Next day, Patrick took the trumpet back to the place he’d bought it, Boosey and Hawkes, and sold it back to them, got the best price he could. “Sod that for a game of soldiers,” he said, “too much like hard bloody work. What we need’s a bass player, someone half-decent on piano, get Val fronting his own band.” And he pushed a bundle of fivers into my hand. “Here,” he said, “go and get those sodding drums.”

  “What about you?” Val asked, though he probably knew the answer even then. “What you gonna be doin’?”

  “Me?” Patrick said. “I’m going to be the manager. What else?”

  And, for a time, that was how it was.

  Private parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, support slots at little clubs out in Ealing or Totteridge that couldn’t afford anything better. From somewhere Patrick found a pianist who could do a passable Bud Powell, and, together with Val, that kept us afloat. For a while, a year or so at least. By then even Patrick could see Val was too good for the rest of us and we were just holding him back; he spelled it out to me when I was packing my kit away after an all-nighter in Dorking, a brace of tenners eased down into the top pocket of my second hand Cecil Gee jacket.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Severance pay,” said Patrick, and laughed.

  Not the first time he paid me off, nor the last.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  That November evening, we’d been hanging round the Bar Italia on Frith Street pretty much as usual, the best coffee in Soho then and now; Patrick was off to one side, deep in conversation with a dark-skinned guy in a Crombie overcoat, the kind who has to shave twice a day and wore a scar down his cheek like a badge. A conversation I was never meant to hear.

  “Jimmy,” Patrick said suddenly, over his shoulder. “A favour. Diane, I’m supposed to meet her. Leicester Square tube.” He looked at his watch. “Any time now. Go down there for me, okay? Bring her to the club; we’ll see you there.”

  All I’d seen of Diane up to that point had been a photograph, a snapshot barely focused, dark hair worn long, high cheek bones, a slender face. Her eyes – what colour were her eyes?