Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Their description of their hero was as vague and varied as their estimation of his age. Izzy wondered if they were being deliberately obtuse to protect their saviour, or whether it was just their age.

  Fortunately, just when she thought she’d come to a dead-end, the Barman recalled seeing the tall fella having breakfast in Ricardo’s cafe on a couple of occasions.

  This was where she was now heading. Hoping - if not praying - that the tall fella would be there, because she was loathe to go back to that obnoxious little Yorkshireman and give him the satisfaction of reprimanding her for not having a story.

  Izzy had, on more than one occasion, visualised herself telling Geoff to stick his job up his fat backside, but since her father had reduced her allowance, she couldn’t afford to. At least not until she‘d found another job, or she proved them all wrong - her editor and her colleagues who she knew all thought of her as a spoilt-little-rich-bitch - that she could be a top reporter. She also knew her father and step-mother continually despaired of her, of the fact she would be thirty this year, was still not married, or had a successful career.

  When she felt the hot sting of tears welling up, she attempted to blink them away, rather than risk smudging her mascara by wiping, but in doing so, she drifted close to the centre of the road. A loud crunching bang made her jerk and yelp with surprise, as her wing mirror hit the wing mirror of an oncoming car. ‘Shit!’ she said, glancing out the side window at the dangling wing mirror. ‘Shit, shit, shitting, shit!’ She quickly glanced in her rear view mirror to check on the other car. She could see it had braked to a stop, and that a man had jumped out and was gesturing in a less than friendly manner.

  She carried on. She didn’t have time to stop, and she certainly didn’t relish a confrontation.

  When she finally got to the cafe, she had to drive around the block a number of times, before a parking space on the opposite side of the road became available. Then, to add to her already stressful morning, she realised she didn’t have any change for the parking meter, and as it was before nine o’clock, most of the shops were still closed. She toyed with the idea of going into Ricardo’s cafe to get some change, but - rather than take her life in her hands by crossing the busy road more times than she had to - she decided against it. Besides, she told herself, the chances of a traffic warden being around at that time of the morning were slim, and the interview shouldn’t take long; in fact, no time at all if the tall fella wasn’t there.

  As Izzy locked her car, she noticed she was parked outside a boutique. Maybe she would treat herself to some retail therapy later. In the meantime, she would have to make do with a cappuccino and a croissant.

  As she approached the cafe, she was disappointed to see it was not of the modern European style, but a single frontage of Georgian window, with tired looking paintwork, and half-height net curtains that shielded the customers from the outside world. It’s a tea room, she thought, as she opened the door and stepped inside. As she did so, her sight, hearing, and sense of smell were attacked.

  It was probably the level of noise that struck her first; the boom of male voices, shouting and laughing over the constant hum of chatter and rattling crockery. The second thing to assault her senses was the smell; fried food and old cooking oil hung heavy in the air, which, along with the under-lying smell of body odour, threatened to make her gag. In a moment of panic - and to avoid throwing-up - she found herself desperately trying to decide whether it would be better to breathe through her nose, or through her mouth. She wouldn’t recall which action she took - and nor did she vomit - because what met her eyes distracted her from thinking about it.

  The cafe was half full of men. Of workmen. Dirty workmen, wearing dirty work boots, and dirty work clothes. Some of which, despite the time of year, did not seem to cover all extremities. The tops of buttocks where exposed, as were portions of gut, hanging over straining belt buckles, peeking out from under tee-shirts that appeared to have shrunk in the wash. She found her memory drifting back to the images of pork belly she’d seen on display at the butcher’s counter in her local supermarket.

  ‘Oi, darlin’,’ came a shout, ‘shut the door will ya. My sausage is getting all cold and shrivelled.’ This was followed by raucous laughter and comments about not wanting a shrivelled sausage.

  Izzy couldn’t decide what to do. Go into the cafe and close her only means of escape, or to flee, out into the fresh purifying London air.

  She took a deep breath, and chose the former. With her cheeks burning to the point of self combustion, and aware that while she was still standing she was the focus of attention, she quickly scanned the cafe for her intended target. Along with a very vague description, she’d been told that the man she was looking for had been wearing what appeared to be an old army surplus combat jacket.

  She spotted a man sitting alone, reading a newspaper. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but she could see a fading bruise on his face.

  Taking a chance, she approached his table. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ she asked the man. He glanced up at her, then away, to survey the rest of the cafe, taking in the occupied tables and the few unoccupied tables that remained, making it clear he was wondering why she needed to sit at his table, rather than at an empty one. He looked back at her, studied her for a moment, and then returned to his newspaper.

  Taking his lack of response for a reluctant yes, she plucked a paper serviette from a holder on the table, and - still feeling the centre of attention - quickly dusted-off the red faux leather bench seat of spilled salt and pepper - and God knows what else! She then quickly sat, bumping knees with the man as she did so. Feeling her cheeks again redden, she mumbled an apology. At least she could confirm he was tall, she found herself thinking. Once seated, she then wiped an area of the table in front of her, sensing, rather than seeing, the look of disapproval from the man opposite.

  Izzy glanced around, looking for someone to serve her. A less-than-young, bleach-blonde Waitress approached with a heaped plate of disgusting looking fried food. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the Waitress. ‘Can you get me a cappuccino, please?’

  ‘You order at the counter,’ the Waitress replied, with a jerk of her head towards the other end of the cafe, as she placed the plate of food in front of the man sitting opposite.

  The last thing Izzy wanted to do was to again draw attention to herself by going to the counter, but she could hardly sit there with nothing to eat or drink. Taking a breath, she slid out from the bench seat, again bumping the man’s knees, and again mumbling an apology. Staring straight ahead, she then made her way towards the counter.

  ‘Yes, luv?’ asked the burly guy behind the counter.

  ‘Cappuccino, please,’ she replied.

  ‘Don’t do frothy coffee.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Cappuccino. Don’t do it. This ain’t the Ritz, darlin’. It’s regular, or tea.’

  Izzy looked at the stubbled face leering back at her. The man’s huge stomach was covered by a food stained apron. Some of the stains looked to be a few days old. She noticed he had egg yolk in the corner of his mouth. ‘Regular is fine,’ she said. She decided to pass on the croissant. Big hairy hands poured ‘coffee’ into a chipped mug and then pushed it towards her. She paid, and then retreated back to her seat.

  As she passed the man sitting at her table, she glanced over his shoulder to the space on the seat next to him. She saw a folded coat. It was green, but whether it was a combat jacket, she couldn’t be sure. She placed her coffee on the table, and slid onto the bench seat, taking care not to again bump knees. The man’s newspaper was now laid on the table, and he was reading it while eating his breakfast. He appeared to be doing the crossword.

  Izzy still didn’t know if this was the man she was looking for. Yes, he resembled the vague description she’d been given, and yes, he had some bruising on his face where the “have-a-go-hero” had been punched, and yes, he was having a rather large cholesterol laden breakfast in Ricardo’s cafe. But that
hardly narrowed it down. The population of London was what, eight million or so?

  She raised the mug of coffee to her lips, taking care to avoid the chipped parts, and took a sip - it tasted as good as it looked. As she tentatively sipped, she studied the man opposite her. She guessed he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He had a ‘strong’ face; handsome in a rugged sort of way; not like the pretty-boy-faced Hollywood actors that seemed to be popular - though Izzy felt his hair was a bit too long. So, yesterday. Unlike most of his fellow diners, he was both clean and cleanly dressed, making her wonder what exactly he did for a living. She noticed his finger nails were clean. She hated men with dirty fingers nails; the thought made her shudder. She didn’t think he went to the lengths of a manicure, but he obviously made an effort with his appearance. His arms and shoulders were strong and toned beneath his close fitting tee-shirt, the pink colour of a first-aid plaster peeking from below the sleeve; until she realised it was not a plaster, but a nicotine patch. She was pleased to see he ate in a polite manner; in that he chewed his food with his mouth closed, and didn’t gulp his drink of tea with a mouth full of food, only to then carry on eating. She watched him pick up a pen to fill-in the crossword. She mused as to which tabloid newspaper he was reading.

  She decided he seemed quite civilised for a manual worker, if that was what he was. ‘Food looks good,’ she said to him, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The man looked up from his newspaper, paused, and then said, ‘Do you like fried food?’

  Izzy was caught off-guard by the question. She hated fried food: the look of it, the smell of it. She was surprised the muesli she’d had for breakfast had not as yet reappeared. ‘Some,’ she said, knowing she looked and sounded unconvincing.

  He stared back at her.

  She looked away, feigning interest in the decor of the cafe.

  Harry was intrigued by the woman sitting opposite him. He estimated she was in her late twenties, and about five foot eight in height. She was stylishly dressed in trousers and a jacket that did not look cheap, and she had an accent that suggested a good education as well as background. Her hair was blonde, straight, and shoulder length with a casual parting, which - when she wasn’t sweeping it back from her forehead by running her fingers through it in that affected way that women sometimes do - she would periodically tuck back behind one ear or the other. This lady has probably never had a fry-up in her life, he thought - and is definitely out of her comfort zone.

  He watched her as she furtively looked around the cafe, studying its customers. She was doing a good job of hiding her emotions, but she was still revealing enough to show a thought process that swung from fascination to disgust, and then back again. He noticed she was wearing a large engagement ring, with which she absentmindedly fiddled as she studied the other diners, making Harry curious about the strength of her relationship.

  Izzy’s mind had wandered from her purpose for being there at the cafe, and she knew it had. She just couldn’t help it; the way her mind seemed to lose focus sometimes and just drift off, leaving her really frustrated - not to mention everybody else she came into contact with. Izzy had been thinking about Jonathan, her fiancé. Watching the men in the cafe had set off a train of thought. She’d been comparing them to Jonathan. Of course, there was no comparison really, she told herself. Jonathan was everything they weren’t: educated, refined and successful. But then she found herself thinking about his lesser points. How materialistic he was; how vain he could be; and how he was always sucking-up to her father. She wondered how her parents would react if she took a hairy-arsed builder home to meet them. The thought struck her as so bizarre and so funny, that a short, sharp, bark of a laugh, escaped her lips before she was able to smother it with her hand.

  Harry smiled to himself, as he watched the young woman’s observations end with a surprised yelp. Conscious she’d just become the focus of attention again, Izzy sneaked a glance at the man sitting opposite her. He was still studying his newspaper. Was he smiling, she asked herself? She could see a softening around his eyes, and what appeared to be the slight tug of a smile at the corners of his mouth. She wondered what was so damned funny. Then, getting a little annoyed and before she could stop herself, she said, ‘That’s quite a bruise you’ve got there. Been in a fight?’

  The man looked up, smile fading, eyes narrowed.

  Izzy felt her annoyance - and with it her bravery - suddenly desert her. The man bore no facial expression: not of anger, happiness, or indifference. Yet his eyes, which were of a light grey, seemed to look deep inside her: assessing her; judging her; touching her very soul, almost. For the first time in her young life, she felt vulnerable: afraid. Then - literally - in the blink of an eye, she saw what she thought was an amused twinkle.

  She stared, opened mouthed.

  ‘Another?’ asked the man.

  She stared dumbly back at him.

  ‘Coffee,’ he said, indicating her mug.

  Realising, she shook her head.

  He went to the counter for a refill.

  Izzy was trying to make sense of what had just happened; why she was feeling confused. Why had she felt afraid - he looked you in the eye, that’s all - and so... excited? This new thought brought more confusion. But she didn’t get chance to dwell on it, because the man had returned and taken his seat opposite.

  He leaned back and studied her.

  She returned his gaze, attempting composure - if for no other reason than she didn’t know where else to look.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied.

  ‘You didn’t come here for Rick’s gourmet food and high class coffee.’

  ‘I was just passing,’

  ‘Just passing?’ he said, surprise in his voice.

  ‘Yes. I was walking past, and I thought I would have a coffee.’

  The man smiled slightly, and then said, ‘You’re not ‘Old Bill’, then?’

  ‘“Old Bill”?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m not the police.’

  ‘Well, you’re not good enough to be a reporter, so are you from the bank?’ he asked, only to then see on her face, the same flare of annoyance he’d seen earlier. ‘Which paper? Which newspaper do you work for?’

  Izzy felt stung by his words; yet also curious by his remark about the bank. ‘The North London Gazette,’ she replied, automatically.

  ‘Isn’t that a weekly paper?’

  ‘It has lots of good stories.’

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Quality stories - feel good stories,’ she added.

  Harry continued to gaze at her impassively, happy to watch her confusion and discomfort.

  Izzy could feel her annoyance levels rising. The man was toying with her, and he seemed to be enjoying it. ‘Were you involved in a fight in the Kings Arms pub in Crouch End, last Saturday night?’ she asked, slapping the palm of her hand upon the table top and surprising herself at how loud it sounded.

  The man’s response was to suddenly lean forward, placing both elbows on the table, while still cradling his mug of tea in both hands. Izzy, surprised by the movement, instinctively leaned back.

  The man took a sip of his tea, eyes still fixed on Izzy.

  ‘Off the record,’ she said.

  ‘Do reporters really say that?’ asked Harry.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He took another sip of his tea.

  ‘Is it Bruce? Or Don?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Were you in the Kings Arms?’

  He sipped while studying her over the rim of his mug.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he finally replied.

  ‘Were you involved in a fight?’ she asked him again.

  Again, he said, ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You do know that all three of those kids had to go to A&E,’ she told him. ‘And, it�
�s debatable if one of them will ever be able to father children.’

  This raised a smile from Harry.

  ‘Do you not have a conscience, or any guilt over what you did?’

  This brought a scowl to Harry’s face. He put his mug down a little too hard, and a little too quickly, spilling some of its contents.

  Izzy flinched.

  ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘they weren’t kids. Secondly, if someone pulls a knife on me, they get what they deserve.’

  ‘A knife!’

  ‘A flick knife. Very sharp.’

  ‘Nobody said anything about a knife,’ she said. ‘Neither the Barman or the old couple mentioned a knife.’

  ‘Did you ask the question?’

  ‘Well... no. But surely -’

  ‘How long have you been a reporter?’

  ‘Investigative reporter,’ she replied.

  Harry flicked a glance towards the ceiling before then saying, ‘How long have you been an Investigative reporter?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they mention a knife?’ she asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Sometimes, people don’t like to get too involved because... they’re afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’ she said, trying to understand.

  ‘Consequences,’ he replied, simply. ‘Besides, it’s probably for the best. If the Old Bill knew there’d been a knife, they would probably take more of an interest in the case.’

  ‘Looking for you, you mean?’

  Izzy saw the man’s eyes move from hers, to a point just over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re about to get a ticket.’

  ‘A ticket?’

  ‘The gold coloured Saab convertible you arrived in when you were “just passing”, is about to get a parking ticket,’ he replied, with a big lazy grin.

  ‘Shit and bugger!’ said Izzy, as she leapt from her seat, hurtling towards the door.

  Harry watched with amusement - and with some concern - as the young woman scurried across the dangerously busy road to remonstrate with the traffic warden. His grin broadened as he watched her waving her arms around wildly, in an attempt to sway the decision of the warden into not giving her a ticket. He couldn’t hear anything of the conversation between the feisty young female reporter and the traffic warden, only the muted roar of the London traffic. He felt like he was watching an old silent movie, like Buster Keaton or Harold Lloyd. For a brief moment, Harry actually found himself feeling sorry for the warden, but the warden seemed totally unfazed by the reporter’s histrionics. As he slapped a ticket onto the young woman’s windscreen, she gave one more frenetic wave of the arms, followed by a small leap into the air of frustration. Spontaneous laughter erupted around the cafe, from the customers who’d also been watching. Harry found himself laughing along with them. When he finally managed to stop, he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes, while marvelling at how a good laugh could clear away worry and despondency so easily and quickly.