by Andy Wiseman
Harry turned, to once again put his back to the bar, with even less room to manoeuvre. But the danger now lay in front. Spike had plenty of space and, in his hand, a flick knife. He was still hurting from Harry’s blow, but now fancied his chances.
He grinned at Harry.
He then feinted a lunge with the knife. Harry leaned away from the blow. Spike feinted another lunge. And then another. Each time Harry swerved away, the bar top pressing against his back, Big Guy unconscious at his feet, restricting his movement. Harry knew Spike was testing him. That he was weighing-up his speed and agility and would soon strike, proper.
He also knew he had to end the fight. And end it soon.
Harry shifted his weight to his back foot, and then flicked out a sidekick towards Spike’s surprised face, which he evaded by quickly leaning back, as Harry knew he would.
Harry had to get him off balance.
He aimed a roundhouse kick towards Spike’s left side. Spike skipped to his right. But Harry didn’t follow through with the kick. Instead - in anticipation - he swept his left arm across the bar, scooped up the heavy coin-filled charity box, to then bring it crashing against Spike’s right temple.
Spike’s legs gave way, and he also crumpled to the floor.
A hush had fallen.
The silence was broken by the chink of coins, as Harry replaced the charity box back on the bar. But not before glancing at the name on the box: Barnardos. The irony brought a smile to his face.
The two young girls were clinging to each other, rigid with fear, their faces frozen, wide eyed and open mouthed, tear streaked mascara staining their cheeks.
Kneeling down next to Spike, who was semi-conscious and trying to blink away the dizziness, Harry picked the flick knife up from the floor and inspected it. It was shiny and new. The handle was of bone, the blade keen. The weight felt good; balanced.
Aware of movement within his line of vision, Harry looked up to make eye contact with the elderly lady. He saw appreciation... yet also uncertainty and apprehension. For a brief moment he was looking into the eyes of another woman. A woman whom he’d held dear, and who’d loved him dearly also.
He blinked. The image was gone.
He looked back at Spike, who was now watching him carefully, fear in his eyes. He flinched as Harry reached out towards him, but it was only to pick up the elderly lady’s bag that had fallen to the floor. Standing, he placed the bag back on the table in front of her. As she retrieved it, her fingers lightly and tenderly brushed the back of Harry’s hand.
That intimate gesture left Harry feeling awkward and humbled.
He looked at the knife, wondering what to do with it. He retracted the blade, then placed it in his pocket. Nodding a courteous farewell to the Barman, Harry then collected his jacket and newspaper and drained his glass, before sauntering out into the chilly November evening.
CHAPTER 2
At exactly seven o’clock in the morning, Harry awoke. He didn’t need to set an alarm clock. Every morning, for a fraction of a second and before he was fully awake, he still thought he could hear the banging of the warder’s fist upon the cell door.
Swinging his long legs out of bed, he sat for a moment to collect his thoughts. Harry wasn’t a morning person - not before caffeine, anyway.
Harry’s bedroom was sparsely furnished: a matt black metal framed bed, a double freestanding wardrobe of Jacobean mahogany with bedside cabinets to match, and - other than the beige cord carpeting and cream painted walls - that was it. There was nothing else. No pictures, wall hangings, mirrors, knick-knacks or clutter of any kind.
He headed towards the en-suite bathroom which was equally spartan: a spacious walk-in shower, white ceramic toilet and basin, black ceramic floor and wall tile finish, a mirror above the basin, a wall-fixed glass holder containing a single toothbrush and toothpaste, and a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap in the shower. Harry didn’t like clutter. “A cluttered room is a cluttered mind”, his mother used to say - his foster mother. Harry had read somewhere that there was a name for this particular style, and it was called ‘minimalist’. Yeah, whatever.While cleaning his teeth, he was careful to avoid the inside of his cheek where it’d been cut during his fight in the pub, two days ago. A gentle probing with his tongue confirmed it was still a little sore. He inspected his face. Shorty’s punch had caused some bruising, which was now turning a yellowy black colour. It was of no consequence. ‘I’ve had worse,’ he said to himself.
Once showered and dressed in clean blue jeans and a tee-shirt, he collected the mail from the front door mail basket, taking time to sift through and separate his morning newspaper and mail, from that of his two tenants’, upstairs. Their mail he placed on a small table in the hallway.
In the kitchen of his own ground floor flat, he turned a radio to a low volume, before then putting the kettle on. Harry’s kitchen, like his bedroom and bathroom, was also new: light oak finished units with black granite worktops, brushed aluminium oven, hob and extractor; all offset with grey slate flooring. There were very few items on the worktops. It looked unused.
With a mug of tea, he took a seat at the kitchen table, to look out through double French doors to a small, high walled courtyard garden. The garden was simple and elegant in its layout, with a variety of evergreen shrubs and tall grasses surrounded by a gravel base. This was an easy to maintain garden, which was just as well, because gardening was still an enigma to Harry. He made a mental note on his to do list to read more about gardening. The garden was one of his favourite places. In one corner was a timber bench, where - out of sight of overlooking windows - he would spend many an hour just thinking, while listening to the wind whisper through the long grasses. He never felt alone in that garden. Sometimes he would talk to his mother, tell her about his day, how he was getting on with the building work to the house; how much he missed her. These conversations would be held in hushed tones, because Harry always felt a little awkward talking about feelings - and because he didn’t want his tenants or neighbours to by-chance overhear him. They would probably think he was mad, sitting outside in all weathers, talking to a woman who’d died a few years ago, and whose ashes were buried under a large mock Greek urn that stood near the timber bench. Harry still couldn’t decide if the urn was a bit OTT, and that maybe something a little more subtle might be more appropriate for a woman as genteel as his mother: a true lady.
Having partly drunk his tea and starting to feel a little more alert, he decided to tackle the morning’s post. As per usual, junk mail seemed to be the bulk. The only two items of any interest were a gas bill - which wasn’t too expensive - and a letter from the bank - which was.
This was the letter Harry had been expecting. Dreading. Harry’s house was previously owned by his mother. On her death it had been willed to Harry and his foster brother, Stephen. Their mother’s passing, and the circumstances of it, had hit Harry hard, and it tormented him still. Wanting to keep some memory of his mother, and provide himself with an alternate form of employment, he’d paid Stephen for his share of the house, rather than sell it. But before he could do that, he had to draw up a business plan on how he proposed to cost and convert the large three storied Victorian house into self contained flats, and then present it to the bank for funding, which they’d granted. The problem was, Harry was behind schedule with the works. He’d completed three of the flats - one of which being his own ground floor flat - with two left to do.
Harry wasn’t a qualified tradesman. Apart from some basic training on carpentry while he’d been inside, he was mostly self-taught, which - along with being a perfectionist - meant it took longer to complete a task. Which was why he was behind schedule, behind with his payments, and the bank wanted to speak to him. But with only the income from the two flats that were finished and tenanted, he was barely managing to cover his costs.
He pushed the letter away. It would have to wait. He would have to stall the bank. He had to finish flat number four. He just needed another couple of weeks. A new
tenant would bring in a month’s rent as deposit, and a month’s rent in advance. He’d be over the worst by then. He flicked through a DIY manual on how to fit kitchens while he finished his tea. Once he had, he washed, dried, and then put the mug away. Then, while gazing out through the French doors at his garden, he pondered his next move. Today, he needed to order some building materials for delivery. Normally he would have paid with his debit card, but he felt sure the bank would have put a block on it until he’d cleared the arrears. Tomorrow was rent day for the two tenants he already had. Could he ask them for it today, he wondered? Would that be unreasonable? Their tenancy agreements clearly stated what day the rent was due, so they would be within their rights to say no. Harry wanted to do the right thing. To be reasonable and fair. He’d collected money on many occasions over the years, on behalf of a man who was now his ex-employer, and the methods he’d used had been far from reasonable and fair. But that was in the past.
‘‘Going straight’ isn’t proving to be easy, mother,’ he said, quietly.
Harry checked the time. Lucy, in flat three, was a veterinary nurse and would be leaving for work soon.
She answered the door after the second time of knocking.
‘Hi, Harry.’
‘Hi, Lucy,’ replied Harry.
‘Sorry I took so long,’ she said, ‘I was in the shower.’
‘So I see,’ said Harry. Lucy was wrapped in a large towel that barely reached down to the tops of her thighs, with a smaller towel wrapped around her head, turban style. ‘Sorry to bother you, Lucy -’
‘You can bother me anytime you like, Harry,’ she said, interrupting. ‘Even when I’m wet.’ She grinned.
Harry smiled back.
Lucy was in her mid-twenties. She was five foot seven inches tall, and she was a redhead with a wicked sense of humour; a fiery temptress. Harry liked her. He liked her a lot. But, he’d told himself, it would not be a good idea to get involved with his tenants.
‘Err, Lucy,’ he began, not quite sure where to start, then opting for a lie, ‘I’m probably going to be away most of tomorrow -’
‘Oh. Are you going anywhere interesting?’ she asked, again interrupting him.
‘Well -’
‘Because, I’m not working tomorrow, and if you wanted some company, I could come with you,’ she said, while smiling broadly and adjusting her towel slowly enough to afford him a glimpse of cleavage.
She wasn’t making it easy for him. In fact, she was purposely teasing him, so he gave her the stern look with the raised eyebrow, the one that said, stop it young lady, I know what you’re doing. ‘Would it be okay if I collected the rent today, instead of tomorrow?’
‘Of course, I have it ready for you.’ She turned and retreated into the flat, giving Harry a view of a rounded backside that was only just covered with towelling. She returned with a cheque. Cash would have been better under the present circumstances, but Harry knew where he could get it cashed - other than his bank.
‘Oh, Harry. One of the doors on my bedroom cupboard is a bit loose. Would you mind looking at it some time?
‘Sure, no problem,’ he replied.
‘It probably just wants screwing a bit tighter,’ she said, flashing her green eyes at him. Harry smiled, waved the cheque to say thank you, and turned to leave. ‘Don’t forget, if you want some company tomorrow, just knock-me-up early,’ she called after him, laughing as she closed the door to her flat.
Harry shook his head, ‘Women!’
Old Mr Jackson, who was in flat two, was an ex soldier and an old friend of his mother’s from her theatre days. Despite his age, Mr Jackson led a very active life, so Harry would have to take his chances as to whether or not he would be in. He knocked on the door. As much as Harry needed the money from his tenant - and “cash was king” with Mr Jackson - a tiny part of him hoped he wasn’t in. Mr Jackson was a real gentleman; but a talker. Harry had heard more war stories than he could remember. He didn’t mind the stories about his mother, though; about her life on and off the stage. This, if Harry were honest with himself, was probably the reason he’d let the flat to the old boy in the first place.
He heard the rattle of the key in the lock. ‘Once more unto the breech, dear friends,’ he said to himself.
‘Custer!’ said the old boy, as he opened the door. ‘Damned fine General!’ Obviously nothing wrong with his hearing, thought Harry. ‘Come in, my boy, come in. Did I ever tell you about General Custer and how he and his men...’
The door closed behind Harry.
CHAPTER 3
The rush hour traffic was a nightmare, and the weather was foul - matched equally with Izzy’s mood, which was becoming all the more stormy as she struggled to drive through the London traffic, using the powerful engine of her Saab to accelerate through gaps, braking hard and often, leaving a trail of blaring horns in her wake.
Isobelle Harker was a newspaper reporter who was on her way to interview a have-a-go-hero. In her opinion it was a non-story, but her editor had insisted she cover it.
It had all started yesterday, when she’d arrived at the office - slightly late.
‘What fucking time do you call this?’ said Geoff, her editor. ‘It’s half way through the fucking morning, for Christ’s sake.’
Geoff was from Yorkshire, and didn’t believe in mincing his words. Geoff didn’t just call a “spade a spade”, he called it a “fucking spade”. He was a man in his late fifties, short, overweight, and fighting a losing battle with a comb-over hairstyle. His plain speaking was given out freely to anyone who pissed him off, and lately that was Izzy, who seemed to hold the monopoly on pissing-off Geoff.
After telling her not to bother taking her coat off, Geoff then thrust a piece of paper at her and told her to get down to the Kings Arms pub in Crouch End, to do a story on a have-a-go-hero who’d come to the rescue of an elderly couple.
‘Isn’t there anything a bit more... interesting?’ she asked him. Then, realising, ‘This is that grotty looking pub on the High Street,’ she said. ‘And it’s probably full of losers.’
‘No, it’s small and quaint, and frequented by unusual characters,’ Geoff replied, doing his best to suppress a torrent of plain speaking. ‘Look at it as a feel-good story. A dark handsome stranger comes to the rescue of an elderly couple. He’s a combination of Bruce Lee, Superman, and Don Quixote all rolled into one - and hospitalised three men. People love that kind of thing.’
‘He sounds like a lunatic... And who the chuff is Don Quixote?’
‘Oh, for the love of Christ,’ said Geoff, before turning his attention back to what he’d been doing prior to Izzy’s late arrival.
Izzy looked down at the piece of paper. ‘Is this all the information we’ve got?’ she asked. ‘It doesn’t give me a lot to go on.’
‘You’re an Investigative fucking Reporter. Fucking investigate,’ said Geoff; plainly.
So that was what she did; went to the “quaint” little pub to investigate. ‘Isobelle Harker, North London Gazette,’ she said, introducing herself to the Barman, who was polishing glasses. After she told him why she was there, she then asked, ‘How did the fight start?’ The Barman just shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you saying you didn’t see how the fight started?’ The Barman pulled a face - which Izzy was unable to tell if meant yes or no - and continued to polish glasses. He obviously doesn’t want to get involved, she thought. This is going to be like pulling teeth. ‘Do you get a lot of trouble in here?’ she asked. ‘Because, surely it can’t be good for business, especially if it becomes common knowledge.’ The Barman paused in his cleaning of the glasses, her veiled threat clear to see. And just to drive the point home, she then added, ‘And I wouldn’t have thought the brewery would be too happy, either. Surely it’s in everyone’s interest that loutish behaviour is discouraged? The general public’s, the brewery’s... yours?’
At this, the Barman wearily put down his cloth and glass, to then lean forward on the bar. ‘Three young lads and two young las
sies came in,’ he said. ‘One of the lads got a bit... boisterous, you might say, with the old couple who are at that table over there.’ He indicated by nodding his head in their direction. ‘Then the tall fella got up and stopped it.’
‘Why didn’t you stop it?’
‘There were three of them. Nasty pieces of work they were too, believe me. Doing this kind of job, you can tell.’
‘Yet a complete stranger stepped in, who could have been seriously hurt.’
‘That’s the thing. He was just as dangerous. Took those three guys apart like it was a stroll in the park. Used some kind of Kung Fu boxing. The unsettling bit about the whole thing was that he hardly said a word. No screaming, or shouting threats, just told the kid to give the purse back and apologise. That’s when the kid took a swing at the tall fella. End of story, as they say.’
‘He asked him to apologise?’ she asked, a little surprised.
‘Yep.’
‘Very civilised,’ she then said, more to herself than anyone else. ‘Who is he?’
‘No idea.’
‘Is he a local?’
‘Depends what you call “a local”. He comes in fairly regular.’
‘Yet you don’t know his name?’
‘He’s never told me, and I’ve never asked.’
‘How am I supposed to find him?’ she said, exasperated. ‘My editor is expecting a story.’
‘Not my problem, lady,’ he replied, picking up his cloth and glass. ‘You could try asking the police. They’ve been and taken statements, though I doubt they’ll put much effort into it. It’s not as though decent people got hurt.’
Not getting anywhere with the Barman, Izzy went over to the elderly couple to ask them their version of what had happened.
While playing dominoes, Ivy and Jim gave her a running commentary on how the trouble had started. How the “heroic young man” - they didn’t know his name - had stepped in to stop the “young hoodlums” causing trouble. Jim told Izzy that the hoodlums didn’t know how lucky they’d been. If he’d been a bit younger, he would’ve taken them outside and taught them some manners. Ivy told him to stop being so melodramatic, and that he probably would have put his back out, anyway.
