Reap the Whirlwind

by Mark Timlin

  I jumped up from the back seat and reached round the driver’s headrest, and got hold of his head. I pulled it back hard and let my fingers find his eye sockets. He screamed too, let go of the wheel and grabbed at my hands. All I could think of was that I hoped the black guy wouldn’t shoot me in the back. The car lurched right, hit a parked vehicle whose alarm went off with an electronic screech, then bounced back to the left lane, hit the kerb and turned over once, twice, before ending up on its roof. Both front airbags went off with twin explosions, and the air was full of talcum powder. And the black guy kept on screaming.

  17

  There’s A Moon Out Tonight – The Capris

  Luckily, I’d ended up on top of him as we’d been tossed about in the crash. Face to face. Close enough to kiss. Except the shaft of my pen still sticking out of his face might’ve got in the way. His gun was nowhere to be seen.

  My feet were against one back window, and luckily again, I was wearing hard heeled boots. I kicked back against the window, once, twice, three times and the glass exploded outwards. I had to get out. The engine was still running, and I could smell petrol. Lots of petrol. It may have been safety glass, but as I squeezed through the gap I felt fabric and skin tear. I hit the tarmac, rolled, got up and ran to the pavement and into the shadows. There was no one about, but I could see curtains starting to twitch, so I ran up to the first left hand turning, and took it.

  There was a huge red full moon lighting my way. I slowed to a walk, turned up the collar of my jacket. And remembering my sunglasses in my top pocket, put them on. As I reached the first house, the sky lit up, followed by an explosion, and an orange mushroom cloud appeared above the rooftops, blotting out the moon, followed by a number of sharp cracks which would be the ammunition in the pistol exploding, and I hoped that no Good Samaritan had tried to help the passengers in the SUV.

  I kept walking, as I heard the sound of sirens, and a helicopter appeared, its spotlight quartering the area. But by then I was just another pedestrian making my way home. I couldn’t catch a bus or even duck into a boozer, the state of my clothes, that I could see in the streetlights were heavily bloodstained. So I kept on walking, head down. There weren’t as many CCTV cameras then as there are now, but I didn’t want my boat on anyone’s laptop. And by Christ, my legs and chest stung. And the heatwave just wouldn’t break.

  18

  Codeine – Eric Clapton

  When I got into my road, I walked up slowly, on the opposite side to mine, blimping parked cars for occupants. Nothing. The street was deserted. No strangers lurking in the shadows or belted raincoat-wearing individuals leaning on a lamp post pretending to read a newspaper like someone out of a Le Carré novel, waiting for me to return home.

  I went up to my flat, and into the kitchen. Under the bright ceiling lights I checked my clothes. t-shirt, jacket, jeans, all ruined. I undressed, found a garbage bag, and dumped them all in the kitchen bin. I’d sort them out later. I was well pissed off. Not only that I’d allowed myself to be kidnapped, but I was very fond of that jacket. Paul Smith as it happened, and not cheap.

  Then I checked myself. The safety glass had ripped my legs and chest. I hobbled into the bathroom, got under the shower and let the warm water rinse the blood away. I felt the wounds, but there didn’t seem to be any glass embedded in them.

  I got out of the shower and patted myself dry with an old towel that would soon join my clothes in the rubbish.

  When you’re in my line of business, you can get hurt, so a good first aid kit is a must. I dug mine out and doused my legs and chest in disinfectant, then, using the largest plasters I had, I patched myself up. I followed that with a handful of super strong, probably highly illegal, painkillers that a pal of mine had brought home from Mexico, washed down with a hit of JD straight from the bottle, and suddenly all was right with the world.

  But not with the couple in the SUV. C’est la guerre as the French say. If you play with fire you might end up getting burnt. Literally.

  I got dressed again in fresh clothes, and figured it was time to go and see Madge.

  19

  Lady Be Good – Count Basie

  Now, let me tell you about Madge.

  I met her two years previously. Another summer, but not so hot. One Saturday morning I was on my way to Mehmet’s for milk, bread, a paper, cigarettes and booze, when I saw her. Elderly. Grey hair, wearing a light mac, looking at the postcards in the shop window advertising all manner of delights, from cleaning jobs to French lessons. And we all knew what they were. She was holding the handle of one of those push me, pull you, tartan shopping trolleys. From out of the pocket at the front, I could see a brown handbag or purse. Twenty yards or so from her, a couple of young likely lads, one white, one black, both on bicycles far too small for them, were giving the bag the eye. I went into the shop, did my business, keeping a watch on them through the open door, and when I left I stopped by her and said, ‘I think you’re being watched’.

  ‘I know,’ she said back. ‘I can see them reflected in the window.’

  Smart woman.

  ‘I think it’s time they went,’ I said, and turned and gave them my dirtiest look. It seemed to hit home, as after a second they turned their bikes and pedalled off.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ she said. ‘But there was really no need.’

  ‘Better to be safe. And you really need to keep hold of your purse.’ I nodded at it in the trolley.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Still, no harm done. Which way are you going?’ She pointed in the direction I’d come from.

  ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Can I walk you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while since a young man did that. Unless, of course, you’re going to steal my bag.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, offered her my arm and we set off.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, as we ambled along. ‘Nick,’ I replied. ‘Nick Sharman.’

  ‘And what do you do, Nick Sharman?’

  ‘I’m a private detective,’ I replied, fished in my pocket and handed her one of my cards. ‘I’ve got an office up by the station.’

  ‘Fancy,’ she said. ‘That sounds interesting. And dangerous.’

  ‘Not really. Just the odd lost dog. That sort of thing.’

  She frowned as if she didn’t believe me.

  ‘And you are…?’ I asked.

  ‘Madelaine,’ she replied. ‘Madelaine McMichael. But my friends call me Madge.’

  ‘Then I hope I can call you Madge,’ I said.

  ‘Charmer.’

  When we reached the corner of Palace Road, I said, ‘This is me.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Well, let’s go on,’ I said.

  When we reached the first right turn, she gestured at the corner house opposite. ‘Here we are,’ she said.

  It was a huge Victorian mansion, as estate agents had started to call them. Dark and foreboding. A real House of Usher job.

  ‘You’ve got a flat there?’ I asked. She shook her head.

  ‘A room?’ I had a horrible vision of her all alone with just a Baby Belling to cook on.

  ‘No, it’s all mine. My husband, John, he’s dead now, bought it years ago. He was in the navy.’

  ‘Smart man. These used to be dirt cheap, but not anymore. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. Do you live alone?’

  She nodded.

  We crossed the road, pushed through the gate and up the path, where the house frowned down on us. The garden was overgrown, and the house itself looked like it could take some TLC, but it looked solid, and worth a packet.

  I walked her to her door and said, ‘I hope your security is up to scratch. I know someone who could give it a once over. And he won’t rip you off.’ I don’t know why I bothered. I just liked her style. And I’d get to like it better as time we
nt on.

  ‘That’s kind,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it. Would you like to come to tea tomorrow?’

  I was surprised at the invitation, but didn’t show it. ‘That would be great,’ I replied.

  ‘Four o’clock. If the weather holds, we can have it on the veranda.’

  ‘That’s a date,’ I said. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Madge.’ As she didn’t say anything, it looked like we were going to be friends.

  Instead, she stretched out her hand for me to shake, then added, ‘The pleasure has been all mine.’

  20

  The Cat – Jimmy Smith arranged by Lalo Schifrin

  The next day, Sunday, I pitched up at Madge’s front door just as the clock on our local church chimed four. For politeness sake, I was wearing a pale grey summer suit, grey cotton tab collar shirt, and a bright red tie. I was carrying a bunch of flowers from an Esso garage, and from Mehmet’s shop a box of chocolates, and a bottle of something cold, wet, and white.

  She answered promptly, only saying, ‘First a young man walks me home, then brings me flowers. I’m flattered’.

  She led me down a long wood-panelled hall that felt cool after the afternoon sun. A single flight of wide stairs led up, and through the banisters a furry feline face peered down at us. The cat had a coat of many colours, black, white, and gold that shimmered in the half light. ‘That’s Schmoo, my cat,’ she explained. ‘She’s a little shy. I got her from the RSPCA. A rescue cat. She had a bad start in life. I try to make it up to her now.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ I said.

  I’d had a cat once, just called Cat, but he moved out and into a house with an Asian family, so he could enjoy their chicken curry. I still see him in the street. He’s about the size of a small London bus now, but he still waddles over so I can tug his ears, his favourite form of petting.

  After the cat had looked at us, and we’d looked at the cat, Madge led me into a huge reception room complete with a fireplace laid with newspaper and logs, and a pair of French windows leading to a veranda and the back garden.

  ‘Nice digs,’ I said.

  ‘I’m glad you approve. Shall we go outside? You can smoke there, but not indoors, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘You know I smoke?’

  ‘I saw you buying a packet yesterday through the window.’

  ‘Good spot.’

  There was a large metal table and four chairs on the veranda. The table was set for tea. I sat and lit a cigarette. She sat opposite me.

  The garden was long and wide, with a lawn that needed cutting, and ended in a wilderness. Just before the undergrowth began was a tumbledown shed and a swing and slide that had seen better days.

  She saw me looking. ‘Those were for the children. Gone now. One to America, the other to New Zealand. As far away as possible, it seems.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe. But it’s sad to have grand children you’ve never met. How about you?’

  ‘Grand children, no,’ I said. ‘But I have a daughter. She lives with her mother and her new husband. Forest Gate. Not quite New Zealand, but still I miss her.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She clapped her hands. ‘But enough of that. Let’s have tea. I hope you’ve got an appetite. I’ve been baking.’

  ‘I skipped lunch especially.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  ‘No, it’s all ready in the kitchen downstairs. I won’t be long.’ She got up and bustled into the house.

  I sat back and lit another cigarette.

  21

  Tea For Two – Frank Sinatra/Art Tatum

  A few minutes later she came back empty-handed. A kitchen crisis, I thought. Tea’s off.

  ‘You can help me now,’ she said. ‘This way.’

  I got up and followed her back into the house. What I’d taken for a cupboard door in one wall was now open, and she leant in and gave something a tug, and with a mechanical whirr a box appeared in the opening complete with two trays. One full of plates of sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, and a Victoria sponge on a dish, the other with a teapot, complete with cosy.

  ‘A dumb waiter,’ I said. ‘You don’t see those every day.’

  ‘No. Come on, grab a tray.’

  I did as I was told and we parked the trays on the table outside. Madge played mother with the tea in china cups, milk and sugar for me, lemon for her.

  The sandwiches were many and various. Ham, egg mayonnaise, cucumber, smoked salmon, tomato, on brown and white bread, cut into quarters with the crusts removed. Right posh. Just like the Ritz Carlton. The cake was moist and sweet, the scones were so light, they almost floated away, and the tea was strong, and plenty of it.

  We scoffed the lot, apart from the cake, and when only crumbs remained of the sandwiches and scones, and the teapot was down to leaves, she said. ‘It’s getting chilly. Let’s go inside and light the fire. The wine’s on ice.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said.

  ‘You can bring the dishes,’ she said.

  I did the necessary, and dumped the trays back in the dumb waiter, then sat as Madge collected the cold wine and two glasses from the kitchen.

  22

  Pistol Packing Mama – Gene Vincent

  She twisted the bottle open and poured two glasses, and I sat on the sofa. Schmoo the cat was sitting on the arm, looking suspiciously at me. ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ I said.

  ‘She,’ Madge corrected me. ‘All tortoiseshell cats are shes.’

  ‘You learn something new every day,’ I said.

  ‘And if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be in here. Now light the fire, please.’ She pointed out a box of foot long matches on the mantelpiece. I got up, lit one, bent down and put the flame to the newspaper in the grate. It caught and started to lick at the logs, and I sat back down and tasted the wine. ‘Not vintage,’ I said. ‘But the best Mehmet’s had in stock.’

  ‘Tastes fine to me,’ said Madge.

  The fire caught and started to spit sparks. ‘Where do you get the logs?’ I asked.

  ‘An old friend has a farm in Essex. He drops a lorryload off every autumn.’

  ‘Handy.’

  ‘Now, Mr Sharman…’

  ‘Nick, please.’

  ‘Nick. You mentioned security.’

  ‘Yes. You should be well prepared.’

  ‘I’ve been here a long time with no trouble.’

  ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news but things are getting worse. Look at those two lads yesterday. They would’ve knocked you down and pinched your bag without a second thought.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I have a friend. He owes me several favours. I can get him to do you an estimate. Rock bottom price. In fact, if you can do better I’ll pay for it myself. And I’ll oversee the job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ I asked.

  ‘Why are you bothering with an old lady like me?’

  ‘I don’t know. You remind me of someone, and anyone who can make cakes like that, and cares for a stray cat…’

  ‘Someone nice, I hope. The person I remind you of.’ ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Can I just have a quick shufti around? Just the ground floor. To give my mate some idea.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pinch the family silver.’

  ‘I didn’t think for a minute you would.’

  I got up and went out into the hall. There were two other large reception rooms on the ground floor, with windows overlooking the street. The windows themselves were old-fashioned push up frames, with simple slide locks that could easily be opened from the outside by pushing a knife up through the gap betwe
en the top and bottom frames, and sliding them open. Just as I thought. Easy. The room on the right was the dining room, with a long table shining with wax, six chairs, and another door leading to another dumb waiter. All mod cons in 1910.

  But it was the room opposite that was the eye-opener. It was huge also, with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with what looked like the entire works of crime writers from Conan Doyle to Michael Connelly, from the eighteenth century right up to date. I recognised most of the authors, although I had not read them all. The room was a real reader’s haven. In the centre, was a high table with two gooseneck reading lamps, and two leather captain’s chairs.

  I went back to the sitting room where I’d left Madge. She’d switched on a standard lamp behind her chair, and on her lap was a large tapestry bag with knitting needles sticking out.

  ‘Blimey, Madge,’ I said. ‘I’m impressed by your library.’

  ‘Those books are my weakness,’ she said. ‘In fact, the garage is full of boxes of them. One day I’ll get around to fitting shelves in there so I can show them off.’

  ‘Are they worth much?’

  ‘Some of them. But it’s not the money, it’s what’s on the pages.’

  ‘Even so. Your security really isn’t up to scratch, so with your permission I’ll talk to my friend.’

  ‘If you think it wise.’

  ‘I do. And no charge for the advice.’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and sat back down, and took a hit of my drink.

  ‘Do you look after this place all on your own?’

  ‘I have a lady who does. A young Polish girl. Two days a week. She’s a marvel.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, took another drink and relaxed. The fire was burning bright, and the cat looked me straight in the eye from her perch.