by Ted Tayler
‘Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.’
She had lived her life in the secret service by that philosophy; those words were as pertinent today as ever. Her mind switched back to the meeting as Rusty was speaking: -
“The sooner we can sort out a few slum landlords the better. We need agents on the ground in every city in the country. This new kit you’ve got in the ice-house is great Henry, but it throws up more shit than we can cope with at times.”
“Always better to be busy than sitting around on our hands,” said Phoenix, getting up and making for the door. “I’ll see you when I get back, Rusty. We’ll crack on with cleansing the Boroughs of a few of their parasites.”
Athena handed over the helm to Minos to go through the remaining status reports at home and abroad. She and Phoenix grabbed a bag and packed clothes and toiletries for a brief stay in her family’s luxurious accommodation in Belgravia. They were being driven in a car from the transport section and heading for the M4 inside an hour. If the traffic was kind to them they should arrive at Vincent Gardens in time for lunch. She rang her mother to tell her they were on their way.
“Things are hotting up, Athena,” said Phoenix.
“No rest from the wicked,” she replied.
“Very droll,” he said and took hold of her hand. “Right, let’s go through our story one more time, to make sure we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.”
“I shall tell them I’m expecting a baby in January. Then we’ll see what their reaction is and take it from there.”
“Terrific; so we’re going to ‘wing’ it? I was hoping we would be better rehearsed than that. If they say this, we counter with that; you know the drill. We’ve done it enough with past interrogations.”
“I wish you didn’t keep referring to conversations with Daddy as interrogations.”
“We don’t have much in common, do we? He’s bound to be concerned for his little princess. The first time we met he thought I was a driver ferrying you around London. It’s going to be a shock when you tell him I’m the baby’s father. He’s going to think that you fancied a bit of rough and got caught out. If that wasn’t enough, I’ve been married twice before and my past has to be a closed book. I could say I’ve worked for the charity for the past three years I suppose, but in what capacity? Anything related to my actual role within the organisation, or the skill set I developed as Colin Bailey, have to be kept closely under wraps. The conversation will be restricted; which will make them more suspicious than ever.”
“I can see I was right to suggest delaying the announcement of a possible wedding in the future. This is a nightmare,” groaned Athena.
“Stick to the basics today,” said Phoenix, “tell them our news of the baby, tell them I work for the charity at Larcombe as a facilitator. They won’t ask what it entails; nobody knows anyway. It’s one of those non-job titles that sprang up twenty years ago. I’ll say as little as possible, and you encourage them to tell us about their last trip. Get your mother to tell you what medication she’s taking and how she’s feeling. That should keep things ticking over until we can make our excuses and head home.”
“We’re nearly there,” said Athena.
The car turned into Vincent Gardens and pulled up by the kerb. Athena and Phoenix got out and collected their bags from the boot. The driver gave a wave and headed off to make his way home to Bath.
“Big breaths,” said Phoenix.
The door opened before either of them had a chance to set foot on the doorstep. Mr Fox ushered them inside and closed the door. There was no hugging and kissing; for which Phoenix was very grateful. Athena always maintained her parents weren’t prone to public displays of affection. The coolness thawed when her mother became ill; heart bypass operations tend to make you take stock of your life. To throw your arms around someone you may never see again if things go wrong doesn’t seem like abandoning your principles.
“Annabelle, darling, it’s wonderful to see you,” said her mother, who joined them in the hallway.
“Let’s go through to the conservatory; we can have coffee and you can tell us how things are going at Larcombe,” said her father.
“Daddy, may I introduce you to Phoenix?”
“We’ve met before, I believe? Don’t tell me, never forget a name. Pat wasn’t it?” said Mr Fox.
“Just Phoenix, sir,” replied Phoenix, “my parents were an odd couple.”
“Hippies, I imagine?” asked Mr Fox.
“Something along those lines,” said Phoenix.
They had arrived in the conservatory. Mrs Fox was in the kitchen. Athena sat on the two-seater lounge sofa and tapped the seat next to her for Phoenix to join her. Her father took his seat in one of the armchairs.
“Very subtle,” whispered Phoenix as he joined Athena.
Mrs Fox was ready to come through with the coffees; she called for her husband to come and give her a hand.
As he left them alone Athena gripped her partner’s hand tight. Phoenix felt her nails digging into his palm.
“Look, I know you’re nervous, but that bloody hurts.”
“I couldn’t deal with it in the car with the driver listening; but ‘perhaps I fancied a bit of rough and got caught out’? Cheeky devil. You didn’t imagine you were going to get away with that one did you?”
She eased the pressure on his hand and kissed him on the lips. This didn’t escape the notice of Mrs Fox as she came through the doorway. Her husband was bringing a silver tray with delicate-looking china cups and the trimmings behind her.
Phoenix was more used to non-matching mugs that carried sayings such as ‘Windsurfers do it standing up’ or ‘Tree surgeons go out on a limb’. On this occasion, nerves had rendered his throat dry, so whatever it came in it was great.
“How was the south of France this time?” asked Athena.
“Bloody hot,” said her father, “too hot these days for your mother.”
There was a lull in the conversation as the four of them started to drink their coffee. Mrs Fox broke the spell.
“Well, you’ve obviously come here to tell us something Annabelle; you wouldn’t drive all this way to ask us how we were. We know how busy charity work keeps you. I think they work you too hard. Are you sure you couldn’t find a similar post here in London?”
“Ah, you missed the introductions, darling, this gentleman is called Phoenix. I gather you work for the Olympus Project too?”
“Indeed I do. Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Fox,” said Phoenix.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she replied, “well, Annabelle, are you ready to tell us what’s going on yet?
“We’re going to have a baby, Mummy,”
“Young people today,” tutted her father, “you didn’t think to wait until you were married then?”
“I’m old enough to know my own mind,” said Athena, “we’ve known one another for three years and we love each other.”
“Don’t pay any attention to your father,” said her mother. “I think it’s wonderful news. I did wonder whether I was ever going to able to call myself a grandmother. If you ever get around to getting married, I’ll be a mother-in-law. If not, it doesn’t matter these days. Either way, I’ll be Grace to you Phoenix. Annabelle’s father is Geoffrey for future reference.”
“What function do you carry out at Larcombe Manor, Phoenix?” asked Geoffrey Fox.
“I’m a facilitator, Geoffrey,” replied Phoenix.
“Really?” said Geoffrey Fox, nodding, “how fascinating.”
The ice had been broken. Phoenix and Athena heard about St. Tropez, Cannes and Monaco over lunch in a very nice restaurant two hundred yards from the Fox residence. Grace Fox told her daughter what changes she had made to her exercise and diet since her health scare.
At the time, any proposed minor lifestyle changes had been met with fear and trepidation; if not downright defiance. Now the modific
ations had become her own ideas, not those of Mr Ramanayake her consultant. Athena thought her mother looked better than she had for several years.
As they walked back towards Vincent Gardens, Geoffrey Fox and Phoenix followed the ladies along the street. Gradually, Geoffrey allowed the gap between them to grow. Phoenix could tell he had something on his mind.
“Where did you serve, Phoenix?” Geoffrey Fox asked.
“I didn’t,” replied Phoenix.
“I imagined that most personnel at Larcombe were ex-servicemen. It must help if you’re dealing with chaps that come home with PTSD. You know, having been in a combat zone yourself. You must have a specialist role then if you acquired the grounding on civvy street? What’s your game? Psychiatry or something in that field?”
“Far less glamorous; I do a lot of planning to help those that leave Larcombe to achieve success in whatever task they pursue.”
Geoffrey seemed content with the answer. Phoenix was happy he hadn’t been forced to lie about the true nature of his role to his prospective father-in-law.
The rest of the weekend passed off without any awkward moments. It was very amicable. Grace Fox questioned her daughter further on the charity and wanted her to consider cutting back on her workload in the months approaching the birth.
“We might not travel quite so much in the future, darling,” she said, “your baby will be a blessing. I shall have something exciting to look forward to instead of dragging myself off to Gstaad and god-forsaken places such as that this winter. Been there, done that and got the salopettes.”
On Sunday evening, they returned in a taxi from the theatre. Geoffrey walked into the lounge and offered Phoenix a nightcap. Grace and Annabelle Fox were chatting over coffee in the kitchen. Geoffrey poured a generous glass of single malt from a decanter and handed it to him. Phoenix knew this heralded a big moment. It wasn’t something the old man did very often according to Athena.
“Welcome to the family, Phoenix. Your parents chose an odd name for you; it rose from the flames, didn’t it? It was born again. We were concerned for Annabelle after the bombings eight years ago; whether she could cope. She found a cause that grabbed her interest. Now she’s found someone to grab her interest too. That’s good enough for us. Treat her well. Grace was right the other day. Being with the right person is more important than a piece of paper. Maybe you were born again too, eh Phoenix? The future is what matters, not the past. So I wish you both good health, good luck and…”
“Good hunting?” added Phoenix.
“Exactly,” said Geoffrey Fox.
Monday, August 19th, 2013
The transport arrived bright and early in the morning and Athena and Phoenix said their goodbyes. Once they were in the car and moving away from Vincent Gardens, Athena breathed a long sigh.
“That went a helluva lot better than we imagined.”
Phoenix decided against telling her that Geoffrey Fox wasn’t fooled by the ‘facilitator’ tag, nor the smokescreen of the charity cover. Her father was an astute man; whatever they were up to at Larcombe was for the greater good. He had brought up his daughter to do nothing less.
“We got through from baby to marriage before we’d finished coffee on Friday lunchtime,” he said, “it was plain sailing from there.”
“What did you and Daddy talk about last night?”
“He told me to treat you well. Welcomed me to the family; the usual father and son-in-law stuff.”
Athena didn’t have anything to add. Phoenix let his mind drift back to his father-in-law Tom Smith. He wondered whether he could apply to the Guinness Book of World Records if he and Athena married. He must have a great chance of being the bloke with the widest gulf in class between fathers-in-law in the world ever. The only thing they had in common was they both liked a drop of scotch.
They arrived back at Larcombe at just before eleven. Athena went to their apartment. Phoenix went to the drawing-room. Only the Three Amigos remained from the morning meeting.
“How was your London trip?” asked Minos.
“Very friendly,” replied Phoenix, “what’s the latest?”
“This warm weather is set to continue,” said Alastor.
Phoenix wondered where Alastor’s priorities were sometimes. He didn’t comment.
“Any idea where Rusty went after he left here?”
“He was meeting Artemis, I believe,” said Minos. “Giles said the new system crashed overnight. She worked on for several hours and needed a break. She may be sleeping.”
Phoenix thought in that case he’d better not wander over to the stable block to find his colleague. He didn’t want to still be there discussing Hounslow and Ealing when Artemis awoke; or if she wasn’t asleep, and they were doing what came naturally, he didn’t want to disturb them. He headed for the orangery.
It was time to face the next set of horror stories in the ‘beds in sheds’ saga.
CHAPTER 5
As if the situation in Hounslow hadn’t been bad enough, the neighbouring Borough of Ealing had seen fifty thousand more people added to its population. Forget what the census reported only two years ago; many of these new arrivals are in the country illegally. They live under the radar and never take part in any official surveys.
When a council official hires a drone to detect humans on the ground in areas where housing is unauthorised you know you have a problem. Phoenix was back at work in the orangery. Giles had provided Rusty with extra aerial photographs. They clearly showed that gardens at the rear of streets of pre-war terraced houses contained large outbuildings.
The heat maps for these ramshackle constructions suggested that one street alone could house a thousand people. Rusty’s report highlighted one property in Southall where a big back garden held three sheds. He had met and talked with an extended family from India who occupied one of the buildings. They had arrived in Britain in 2010 and had lived in Slough.
The elderly grandparents didn’t speak English. Their sons lived with them, with their wives and children. The children’s ages ranged from three to twelve. One son worked in Reading, the other at Heathrow Airport. Both the wives worked in Southall in convenience stores. They had no complaints. They were happy with their lot.
“We have three rooms and a bathroom,” one of the younger women told Rusty. “We are close to the local school. We pay a lot of money, but this way of life is what we’ve grown up with.”
Rusty had found that they were paying around four hundred pounds a month for the property. Ironically, the council’s hands were tied with older buildings such as these. If the landlord proved the shed had been built over four years ago, they couldn’t force the families out and demolish them.
Not everyone Rusty interviewed told the same story. A Moroccan warehouseman went to view what was described as a studio flat and found a damp, bug-infested, rank-smelling shed. It was available ‘at only seven hundred pounds per calendar month’. He had been horrified, but he had no alternative but to sign a contract. He needed a roof over the heads of himself, his wife and their infant daughter.
Rusty had used the information supplied by families such as these to trace the landlords involved. One surname kept cropping up on documents and in conversation when there were sad tales to tell. The worst offender was a man named Flynn.
Patrick Flynn was an Irishman in his late forties. He had been a teenager in the mid-eighties and he and his mates had two major sources of enjoyment: watching football and fighting. Gangs of vicious soccer thugs leave a decidedly bad taste in the mouth. Paddy Flynn joined one of the most notorious a few miles from where he plied his trade as a landlord.
If you happened to be wearing the wrong replica kit and bumped into Paddy and his colleagues after a League game, you could be spitting out smashed teeth before the day’s results had been read on the TV. He and the gang he ran with stirred up serious ultra-violence during matches and were responsible for the worst rioting and missile-throwing in British football. They were proud of the fact
and wore the scars of battle as a badge of courage.
Patrick Flynn described himself as a businessman these days. He wore a suit and tie. The tattoos were hidden away under crisp white tailored shirts. His knuckles still bore the faded ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ that laser surgery had not entirely removed. It wasn’t recommended you looked too closely to read what had once been there. Under the polished veneer he had adopted in the past decade, the hooligan still lurked as violent as ever.
Two of the lads from the same sink estate that had run with him back in his youth were still by his side. Eamonn Murphy and Terence O’Callaghan had worked for Flynn as muscle since they received a phone call offering them ‘enjoyable’ work at the turn of the millennium.
Rusty had uncovered dozens of tenants who had felt the fists of Murphy and O’Callaghan during the past decade. Flynn sent them to one of his properties and they confronted the twenty-eight-year-old Egyptian tenant about past due rent. Murphy punched the tenant several times and threw him onto a kitchen table, causing it to break. O’Callaghan picked up a chair and hit him repeatedly over the head. The tenant needed medical attention and was off work for two weeks.
A Dutch tenant in his mid-thirties was struck in the head with a baseball bat, choked, and then attacked with a broken beer bottle. Tenants in neighbouring flats heard the men yelling abuse at him. The police were called, but by the time they arrived, the thugs had gone. The officers found the victim covered in blood, sat on the steps outside his building.
They took him to the closest hospital and asked him who was responsible. The tenant said he had slipped and fallen. No one else was involved. The police could do no more and left. The Dutchman took a taxi back to his apartment and moved out at the end of the month.
Phoenix was half-expecting what followed. The escalating violence was bound to lead to someone’s death before long. In November of 2012, a twenty-two-year-old Muslim man, Gibril Khan moved into a multi-occupancy bedsit that was on Paddy Flynn’s list. He paid six weeks’ rent on arrival.
