‘The middle one,’ said Nod with no confidence. ‘I reckon . . . or the one next to the middle. One of them.’
He advanced heftily. A gate with an aching creak led them to a flight of six outside steps scarred and carpeted with debris. Nod surveyed the door, gathered his shoulders and strode the two paces like an odds-on boxer entering the ring. But he then paused, glanced uneasily at Savage and Mr Kostelanetz, and knocked daintily.
‘Kick it,’ Ordered Mr Kostelanetz.
Nod was troubled. ‘They get upset,’ he said.
‘It is not their door. This door is stolen by them. Also all of the house. Kick it.’
Nod complied. He only did it once. To their surprise they heard it being hurriedly unbolted. The door scraped open, revealing the head of a nervous-eyed youth whose sallowness was accentuated by his vivid ginger hair. ‘Who is it?’ he enquired.
‘Police,’ answered Mr Kostelanetz with no hesitation. ‘CDI.’
‘CID,’ corrected Nod in a whisper. Mr Kostelanetz curled a dismissive lip towards him.
‘Any dogs?’ enquired the occupant endeavouring to peer beyond them.
‘They’re eating their breakfast,’ replied Mr Kostelanetz.
‘Oh, all right then,’ said the youth in a surrendering voice. He did not appear to have the strength to pull open the door fully. Mr Kostelanetz eyed Nod who put his foot to it and pushed it. They went into a hall sagging with damp. Behind the door was a barrier of leaves, rags, dusty junk mail, and khaki-coloured newspapers. Ginger appeared apologetic. ‘We were going to have a sweep-up today,’ he muttered. He gathered himself. ‘We’re quite legal,’ he asserted looking from face to face and adding: ‘Officers.’
Nod, who liked being cast in the role of a policeman, was trying to think of some likely remarks. ‘We’ll see about that, chummy,’ He growled eventually, flipping an approval-seeking look first towards Savage and then Mr Kostelanetz. ‘Won’t we, guv’nors . . .?’
Mr Kostelanetz seemed inclined to give Nod a push and he backed prudently against the mildewed wall. He withdrew his hand from the damp surface, sniffed it and made a face. Mr Kostelanetz began striding down the grim hall, Ginger reluctantly hurrying before him, half-turned, asking who they wanted.
‘Kathleen Wilson,’ put in Savage.
‘Don’t know her,’ said the youth with some relief. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Known as Korky,’ added Mr Kostelanetz holding and fully revolving Ginger with his large hand.
‘Korky,’ nodded Nod.
‘Ah, now I know,’ said the youth. Savage felt his own expression change. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘She lives two down,’ said Ginger. ‘Along the street.’ He pointed sideways at the passage wall. ‘Woodbine Villa it’s called. Number four.’
‘How long has she been there?’ put in Savage.
‘I don’t know, not for sure. I never take much notice of the neighbours. About a week or so. Nobody stays long.’
Ponderously the three men turned in the confinement of the corridor and began to go back towards the open door. The bleakest of summer daylight was pushing through the aperture like bright sunshine. Ginger let them almost get there before saying: ‘You can’t get in from the front. They’re all nailed up.’
‘Tell us how we do get in there?’ suggested Savage. Ginger appeared to be trying to work out who was in charge. ‘You have to crawl underneath,’ he replied making a dipping motion with his head.
‘Show us,’ said Mr Kostelanetz.
‘Yeah, show us,’ echoed Nod.
Again the trio turned in the narrow space. ‘This way please,’ said Ginger with a butler’s bow. ‘Along here.’ He paused and pointed: ‘Don’t fall over the rat.’
He pushed the huge dead rodent aside with the edge of a ragged slipper.
Mr Kostelanetz tutted and remarked to Savage: ‘How some peoples live.’
Ginger led them down a stretch of rotten wooden stairs, again warning them to take care where they trod. Nod tested each stair before he consigned his weight to it. All around was airless, dim and damp as a vault. ‘Soon they’re going to start the alterations,’ said Ginger conversationally and with a perverse pride. ‘Windows, everything. They’re going to build trees.’
They went into a room where the dull June daylight seeped through a grille sending a band of insipid illumination over four forms lying curled under rugs and blankets and piles of newspapers. ‘Why don’t they get up?’ demanded Mr Kostlanetz like an aggrieved employer. ‘It is now eleven.’
‘Eleven-o-three,’ corrected Nod putting his watch close to his eyes in the dimness.
‘What for?’ asked Ginger. Warily he trod between the figures. ‘It’s not Giro day. They’re all up and about on Giro day. That’s tomorrow. In the winter some of them only move once a week.’
‘Shut up,’ grumbled a voice from beneath the mounds.
The intruders eyed each other and curiously fell to silence as though appreciating that they were trespassing. ‘Along here,’ whispered Ginger.
‘All right,’ whispered Nod as Mr Kostelanetz studied him caustically through the gloom.
They went through another room where a boy was propped against the wall in the corner. His head came up and he regarded them moodily. ‘I’m going ’ome soon,’ he said as if he needed a reference. Another figure materialised in a doorless doorway. ‘Any dogs?’ he asked.
‘No dogs,’ Ginger assured him. ‘They’re eating their breakfast.’
‘Bit late for breakfast,’ sniffed the new arrival. His face was an ashen triangle between long filthy hair. Savage stared at him, wanting to ask him why. But Mr Kostelanetz tugged his sleeve and advised: ‘Don’t get mixing.’
There was another passage followed by another room, what had been a kitchen with a gas cooker, the only fitting now remaining.
Ginger pointed casually: ‘It was there if anybody wanted to cook. The last one put his ’ead in it but he didn’t know this gas won’t kill you. They’ve cut it off now, anyway.’ He appeared offended. ‘They’ve even cut the phone off.’
He had reached a pantry in the corner of the kitchen. The door remained and he scraped it open. ‘This way, please,’ he intoned like a guide in a catacomb. He stopped and went through a hole in the plaster and the wall. The three bending men followed him. Savage went first, Mr Kostelanetz followed grunting and brushing his jacket, and Nod afterwards, bringing down bits of mortar and plaster as he forced himself through the burrow.
As if getting through the wall had created a new familiarity, Ginger turned to them on the other side and, wiping his hands on his jeaned hips, held the right out to each of the trio in turn. ‘My name is Jock Paradise,’ he announced.
Savage mumbled his, Nod just shook hands as if reluctant to divulge anything, and Mr Kostelanetz said: ‘I’m Mr Winston Churchill.’ There was no reaction from the youth. He was occupied with being cautious in the house like someone who had crossed a border and needed to be polite to the natives. He led them guardedly through debris on the opposite side of the cupboard and into a room slushy with mud. ‘They had a bit of a burst,’ he explained. ‘Nobody knew how to cut the water off. Then the council came and cut it off for them and they’ve never come back to put it on again. Diabolical liberty.’
There was a flight of wooden stairs, so obviously rotten that there was no need of Ginger’s warning. Each of the three men went up tentatively and separately. The wood yielded like sponge under Savage’s feet. Ginger, stooping in front of them, had reached a room where, surprisingly, a young, filthy man was seated at a desk staring at an old typewriter. ‘S’cuse me, Wordsworth,’ the ginger youth said seriously. ‘Where’s that girl? The nutty one.’
‘I’m writing,’ objected Wordsworth. He looked up and saw the other three. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Police,’ Mr Kostelanetz told him swiftly.
Wordsworth peered around the corner of his desk. ‘No dogs?’ he said.
�
�They’re in the dog show – at Crust’s,’ said Mr Kostelanetz.
Wordsworth addressed Ginger directly. ‘Number five she is now,’ he said. ‘She was in bed with that vicar.’
Savage swallowed heavily and Mr Kostelanetz rolled his eyes with alarm.
‘What vicar?’ asked Savage quietly.
Wordsworth sighed. ‘Oh, he’s some sort of reverend who comes around here. Says he’s a missionary, but he’s not, he’s a dickhead.’ Without taking his hands from the keys he nodded fiercely at the typewriter. ‘But he got this for me. To write my life story.’
His eyes dropped again. Savage observed that there was nothing written on the paper in the typewriter. The author grunted: ‘I haven’t started yet.’
They moved away and he called after them: ‘I’ve got eight O levels.’ The claim resounded through the stagnant house.
‘Sleeping with a priest can’t be so terrible,’ observed Mr Kostelanetz in a comforting way to Savage. They now had to climb through a hole halfway up a wall, standing on a wet armchair which sighed soddenly under each one’s weight. Short of breath, Nod became jammed in the hole, and they had to pull him through. Mr Kostelanetz needed to rest, grumbling: ‘Even spying was not like this.’
‘One more,’ reassured Ginger. ‘Then we’re there.’
He took them through what seemed to be an entirely empty house and then, like a game-show host revealing another test, pointed to a trapdoor in the floor. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘And up the other side.’
‘No better way?’ asked Mr Kostelanetz. He was trying to get the grit from his jacket. Nod brushed him like a valet.
Ginger smiled cannily. ‘There are other ways, but nobody can tell them.’ He cocked his head. ‘The front doors are all locked up and barred and the windows boarded over.’
Ginger bent and lifted the trapdoor. It was dark and narrow below. ‘It is like a testicle course,’ sighed Mr Kostelanetz.
‘Obstacle,’ corrected Nod proudly. ‘Obstacle course. And it’s Cruft’s not Crust’s.’
‘You are going to hurt your balls,’ insisted Mr Kostelanetz.
‘Do I get paid something for this?’ suggested Ginger as though the idea had just occurred to him. He held open the trap. ‘Expenses?’
Silently Savage handed him five pounds. Nod watched the transfer enviously. The youth checked the note, thanked Savage politely and clambered down the hole. Savage went next. Mr Kostelanetz peered with doubt into the depths but eventually followed, and Nod, after once more becoming wedged, managed to descend also. There was an iron ladder bolted to the wall below and a strong stench in the darkness. ‘We’ve reported it,’ said Ginger, his voice echoing in the tunnel.
It was only a few dark yards. They could see the faintly lit outline of another door ahead and, to Savage’s relief, the ginger youth pushed this open without resistance. ‘This is it,’ he announced. ‘Number five.’ He paused and, as if he now appreciated the drama of the situation, added: ‘She’ll be in here.’
There was a bent form in the corner, two thin, pale fingers rolling a thin, pale cigarette. ‘Where’s the priest?’ Ginger asked. The cigarette was pointed at the ceiling like an indication of heaven. They went from the room and into a hall where the wallpaper was hanging in tongues; an oil lamp stood unlit on a box. Like a raiding party they went swiftly up the stairs. Ginger turned into a room, took a look, and came out again. ‘Not in there,’ he said as though he would rather they did not see what was. ‘In this one.’ He moved towards the adjoining bedroom. ‘In here.’
They went in after him, Savage first. To his astonishment there was a decent double bed piled with an assortment of rugs and blankets. Two figures were below the coverings with a distinct curved valley between them. One of them was snoring. ‘Reverend!’ bellowed Ginger. He needed to gather strength to raise his voice. ‘It’s the police!’
‘Christ!’ The howl came from below the bedclothes, the lump rose like a whale from the sea and a rounded man with a scarlet face appeared. He was wearing a dingy singlet and a guilty expression; a crucifix swung jerkily on his neck as he pulled himself up in the bed. Bad-temperedly he flung it around to his back. The mound next to him groaned and moved. His consternation went from them to it.
Savage was transfixed. First the top of her hair appeared, then her white forehead, and deep, startled eyes. Her narrow face and her body, engulfed in a shell suit of orange and blue, eased itself up. His instinct was to rush and pick her up and run with her from the room; to take her somewhere safe. Her initial dismay was followed by delight as she realised who was standing there. ‘Oh, Savage darling!’ she breathed. ‘You’ve found me!’
‘You’re getting out of here,’ he ordered. ‘At the bloody double.’ His face was set, his eyes determined.
The priest sat pop-eyed beside her in the bed and looked at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he croaked.
John’s here somewhere,’ said Korky clambering vigorously from the bed, giving Savage a swift but decisive kiss, and then leading them through the holes and labyrinths of the terraced squat. She seemed utterly at home. Savage was relieved that she was fully covered by the terrible Day-Glo shell suit that illuminated their progress through the darkened apertures and unofficial entrances, but reason told him that few of the denizens of that place changed for bed.
‘John! John!’ Korky shouted urgently before her as she led the short procession around and up and down again like a sergeant of sappers through military earthworks. She appeared unflustered that Savage had discovered her, only glad to see him. He followed closely behind her illuminated orange backside and they went from house to house with Mr Kostelanetz a flagging third, brushing his clothes and pursuing them with the waning agility of a one-time man of action. Nod came at the rear, grumbling and stumbling.
‘John!’ called Korky as they burrowed into the final decayed house. Along the terrace various occupants had merged with, or emerged from, the shadows but in the last habitation a solitary youth wearing a blanket over some sort of sailor suit squatted over a meagre fire on top of which was a metal bucket. He was sluggishly stirring the contents, like a bored sorcerer. Korky’s eyes flared in the shadows; she pointed soundlessly at the figure who continued stirring with a metal rod and showed no sign that he had noted their arrival. Her accusing finger was followed by a chicken-like squawk. ‘You!’ she accused as she staggered towards the form hunched rancidly over the fire and bucket. ‘You! Benedict . . . you bastard!’
Benedict looked up mildly but continued stirring. He had the face of someone between twenty and fifty. It filtered into a private smile.
Korky halted as if afraid to advance. Her nose twitched towards the steam from the pot. ‘He’s had him,’ she growled sorrowfully. She whirled on Savage. ‘The bugger’s eaten my John.’
Movement seemed beyond her. Feeling odd, Savage moved tentatively towards the youth and his dire bucket. ‘Have you cooked her gerbil?’ he asked. He peered into the bucket. Swirling in the grey water were some ominous lumps. The cooker shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
Now Mr Kostelanetz moved forward. Menacingly he approached Benedict. His face moved over the steam to confront that of the youth. ‘Which ear do you want me to take off?’ he enquired in his villain’s voice.
‘Either one,’ offered Benedict blandly. ‘Can I keep it as a souvenir?’
Nonplussed Mr Kostelanetz began to fumble for an imaginary knife. Korky intervened. ‘Benedict,’ she demanded. ‘Where’s my John?’
Breathing an ancient sigh Benedict gave his bucket a parting mix and retreated into the folding shadows. He returned with a shoebox and opened the lid to reveal the curled and sleeping animal. ‘I was going to make a nice gerbil curry,’ he said.
Korky snatched the container from the youth causing the pet to wake uncomfortably. She thrust her nose into the box and made intimate sounds. Benedict, giving no one another glance returned to his bucket.
Eighteen
‘Straight, Savage,’ she said facin
g him adamantly. ‘How was I to know there was a bloody vicar in the bed? All I know is that it was a bed and I crawled in. Either he was in there already and I didn’t notice or he climbed in later. Take my word, a bed is a bed in a squat.’ They had reached Kensington Heights. Korky looked around happily. ‘It’s so nice to be home,’ she sighed.
Savage said: ‘How did you get there anyway, in that dump? The last time I saw you your new parents were taking you home to good old Swindon.’
Korky was immediately downcast. ‘I know,’ she admitted avoiding his eyes. She sat down and asked for a drink. He brought a Coca Cola from the refrigerator. She studied him over the rim of the tin. She lifted it. ‘You knew I’d be back then? Some time.’
‘I bought a supply in case I met up with some other wandering waif,’ he said, then repeated: ‘What were you doing in that hole?’
‘Living,’ she shrugged. ‘Being. Until I could find more suitable accommodation.’ She choked on the Coke.
‘How long did you stay in Swindon?’
‘Three weeks,’ she answered. ‘Nearly.’ Her expression became pleading.
‘They’re your mother and father,’ he said steadily. ‘Don’t you love them?’
The enquiry appeared to astonish her. ‘Of course I love them. But I love them like mother and father. I don’t want to be with them.’
Stone-faced he went to the window. ‘I never know why you always go to the window,’ she complained lowering the Coke tin from her lips. ‘It’s always the same out there, give or take a bit of sky or a few more leaves. There’s bugger-all to see but you stare out like you’re trying to see the future.’
‘Maybe I am,’ he said continuing to gaze outwards.
She put on her small girl voice. ‘It was hell in Swindon,’ she pleaded. ‘I had my own room back and God I hated that room. When I was thirteen I used to climb out of the window and go and muck around with the boy next door. He was sixteen and he wore glasses in bed so he could see what he was doing. But he’s moved now. Oh, they fussed over me, you know what I mean. But I had to do a runner. They fixed me a job in a boutique . . .’
Kensington Heights Page 23