Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  ‘Five pounds,’ the elderly gentleman said.

  Harry just gawped. Five pounds was about three months worth of pocket money for doing chores around the house.

  The elderly gentleman then turned and headed up the garden path to Lillian’s front door. ‘Be careful not to scratch it,’ he called over his shoulder.

  This was Harry’s first meeting with Mr Solomon, the man also known as “The Jew”. It would not be his last.

  Harry never returned to school. Through Mr Solomon, he had regular employment. His first job had been at the tender age of fifteen, working as a general labourer on a building site. It was gruelling work, but he enjoyed it. His older work mates would push him to his physical limits, but Harry would not give them the satisfaction of giving in. He would work to the point of exhaustion, often only managing to shower and eat the evening meal that Lillian cooked for him, before then collapsing into a deep sleep. By the time Harry had turned seventeen, he’d grown five inches taller, and gained almost a stone in muscle weight. By eighteen he was a trusted and valued doorman at one of Mr Solomon’s nightclubs. It was a big responsibility for one so young, but none of Harry’s nightclub colleagues questioned or challenged it, because it was obvious Harry was favoured by Mr Solomon. But also because Harry was a hardened street fighter, and could easily hold his own against most men.

  As Harry grew older, Mr Solomon gave him more responsibility. Mr Solomon owned a lot of property, private and commercial. When rent was outstanding, Harry would be sent to collect it. The more responsibility Harry was given, the more he was paid, and Harry liked having money.

  Harry realised his train of thought had strayed from the memories of boyhood, to the dark activities of early adulthood. He wondered how he could have been so naive or arrogant. Or was it a case of both? What he did know, was he’d done very little good in his life - other than help himself.

  On the arm of the Chesterfield lay the business card he’d been given by Patrick, Mollie’s father. He drained the remainder of the whisky, placed the glass down, and reached for the card.

  CHAPTER 8

  Harry’s mood was as black and as sombre as the London sky. He had been striding along the Maida Vale Road, heading towards Mollie’s flat in Kilburn, when the heavens had opened up. It was a further few hundred yards before he found the sanctuary of a shop doorway which had space enough for him, along with the few other pedestrians already seeking shelter there. Harry was wearing his trusty combat jacket, which was ideal in cold weather, but acted like blotting paper in rainfall. He could feel rainwater soaking through to his tee-shirt, which, coupled with the water trickling down the back of his neck, only served to darken his mood.

  In a matter of minutes though, the downpour had ceased as dramatically as it had started, and the dark clouds had passed, allowing the sun to shine through, raising steam from the pavements.

  As Harry stepped from the doorway, he found himself once again questioning the wisdom of searching for this missing girl. After all, she meant nothing to him.

  He turned into Mollie’s street. Each side of the road was lined with three storey houses. As Harry approached Mollie’s building, he noticed how tired the facade looked, and that there was a ‘for sale’ sign attached to the black wrought iron railings, though the sign didn’t indicate which flat was for sale. A flight of concrete steps led up to the main entrance door, where a figure now stood, jabbing a finger at a button on the intercom. The figure, which had its back to Harry, was wearing blue jeans and a black hooded top, with the hood up. Harry guessed it was a young male, approximate height of five-ten.

  As Harry mounted the steps, the hooded figure turned and skipped down, bumping Harry’s arm as he passed, face averted, muttering to himself. Harry watched him shuffle off down the street. He wondered at the lack of manners in today’s youth.

  There were four buttons on the intercom. Presumably four flats. He decided to press the button to Mollie’s flat - just in case. It would be impolite to just walk in, unannounced. He pressed the button, long and hard. No response. From his pocket he produced the two keys given to him by Patrick. Selecting the larger of the two, he inserted it into the five lever security lock, turned the key, and then entered.

  The lobby resembled a lot of converted old properties in London. Dimly lit, yet bright enough to reveal faded decor: a dado rail below which the wallpaper bulged from salt damaged plaster, confirming the musty smell of rising damp, and an uneven ceramic tiled floor led to an open staircase. Across the lobby was a numbered door to the ground-floor flat. Like Harry’s home, there was a small bureau where mail could be placed for the tenants’ to collect at their convenience, and on which there were at least half a dozen items.

  Harry was flicking through these when he sensed he was no longer alone; he was being watched. He turned to face the door of the flat across from where he was standing. He saw a shadow of movement below the bottom of the door and the tiled lobby floor, followed by the faint sound of a creaking floorboard from within. He lifted his gaze and stared squarely at the spyhole in the centre of the door. A moment later the shadow moved away, followed by another faint creak.

  Harry returned his attention back to sorting through the mail, checking the names. None for Mollie. The faint creak, again caught his attention, to be then closely followed by the click of a latch being turned.

  He slowly turned back to the closed door, only now it was slightly ajar, and the small wizened face of an elderly woman - not much higher than the dado rail - peered quizzically out at him. He gave her one of his brighter smiles. She treated him to a frosty glare, before abruptly closing the door. I must be losing my touch, he thought, as he made his way up the stairs.

  Harry opened the front door to Mollie’s flat and stepped into a small lobby, off which there were three doors. The first led to a small bathroom, the second to a medium sized bedroom - both windowless - and the third to a reasonably spacious lounge that had windows overlooking the street and a small kitchenette at one end. There was a faint smell of stale air.

  Harry looked around. The lounge was simply decorated and sparsely furnished. The walls were of a magnolia colour, and the bare floorboards had been sanded and varnished; a sofa and an armchair that had seen better days had brightly coloured throws to give them some life; a small table with two mismatching chairs sat against one wall; and a poster showing a long haired and bare chested rock guitarist in full swing, was fixed to another wall. Harry, who was a keen music fan, recognised neither the face nor the name that was printed along the bottom. Must be getting old.

  The small kitchenette was equally sparse in its worktop utensils. Cheap containers identifying tea, coffee, and sugar were neatly lined up, along with an electric kettle, microwave and toaster.

  The flat was generally neat and tidy, but Harry’s overall impression was... here he paused in his thinking, looking for the right word... tired! That was the word; much like the rest of the building. He was mildly surprised. If Mollie’s father, Patrick, was as wealthy as he’d implied, why wasn’t that wealth reflected in the quality of his daughter’s flat? Maybe he didn’t believe in spoiling his children.

  More questions than answers.

  Where to start?

  Standing in the middle of the room, dripping rainwater onto the floor boards, Harry was feeling a little out of his comfort zone. Finding people wasn’t his forte - it was more the opposite.

  He took off his wet coat and hung it over the back of a chair. He decided to make a start with the small table, upon which was a desktop computer, some writing materials, and a stack of books on Art & Design, borrowed from the library of the college that Mollie attended and almost a week overdue. There was also a small pile of unopened mail, the postal dates varied but recent. Either Mollie didn’t bother opening her mail, or someone else had brought it up to her flat.

  A cheap looking telephone answering machine was also on the table, the digital display indicating six messages. Harry thought it unusual that som
eone of Mollie’s age had an answering machine. He thought the younger generation were too into their mobile phones - texting and tweeting - to bother with an old fashioned answering machine - and just what the fuck was ‘tweeting’, anyway, he mused, as he pressed the play button.

  The first caller identified herself as Mollie’s mother, asking Mollie to call her back. The following three calls were disconnected once the answer machine message kicked-in.

  The fifth message was the voice of a man shouting the single word, “bitch!”, before then disconnecting, the volume so loud, and the anger so intense, that Harry recoiled in surprise. The sixth message was the mother again, asking - almost begging - Mollie to call her back. There was no mistaking the edge of desperation in the mother’s voice. Harry wondered who the angry male might be: Patrick, Mollie’s father? By his own admission, he’d struck his daughter. The one word and the manner it was delivered, didn’t really give any indication of an accent; regional or foreign. He studied the machine intently, unsure. It didn’t appear to be able to display the caller’s number, or when the message was left. He watched the digital display cease to flash, to then return to the number six.

  On the wall above the small table was one of those clip-art picture frames, which held a montage of photos. Most of the photos featured Mollie and people of her own age, probably friends and other students from the college, and most of which seemed to have been taken in pubs and clubs, portraying scenes of revelry. There was one photo of Mollie giving another girl a full-on, girl-on-girl, French kiss. He wondered whether it was staged for the camera, or whether Mollie was bi-sexual. Either way, Harry again found himself wondering about the mindset of today’s youth.

  He moved into the small kitchen area, which consisted of two double base units - in one of which was the sink - and two double wall units. The oven and hob were housed in an adjacent single base unit. It was tidy and clean, but definitely past its sell-by date. In the cupboards, he found dried pasta, tinned tomatoes, rice, dried pulses and Tofu. Just about everything Harry didn’t eat - and no baked beans. Didn’t all students eat baked beans? While this may have been one student stereotype that Mollie didn’t fit, she certainly fitted the stereotype of enjoying alcohol, judging by the number of empty wine bottles that were dotted around the room and now served as candle holders. The opened packet of Marlboro cigarettes and the king size packet of cigarette papers - with pieces torn off - that Harry found at the back of the cupboard brought a wry smile to his face.

  An inspection of the fridge confirmed more alcohol, an opened carton of orange juice, some Brie, and a Cling-filmed bowl of cooked pasta; the smell and colour of which suggested it - like the kitchen - was out of date.

  Harry moved onto the remaining two rooms. In the bedroom was a king sized brass bedstead covered with a brightly coloured throw, on which was sewn hundreds, if not thousands, of beads, sequins, and tiny mirrors. It was a beautiful piece of cloth, most certainly made in Asia, and no doubt, hand sewn. Brightly coloured silk-type scarves were also draped and looped on and through the bedstead. The bed was without doubt the centre piece of the room. At the other end of the spectrum was a free-standing double wardrobe and an overly large mirrored dressing table, both of which looked like they may have come from a Swedish furniture store. Items of clothing hung from the wardrobe handles, bulkier items were perched on the top. The mirrored dressing table was adorned like the bed, with scarves, necklaces, and items of jewellery. The top of the dresser was, and this was a word Harry knew the fairer sex would not agree with, strewn with items of makeup. He shook his head. Like most men, he’d never been able to understand a woman’s need for such a vast array of cosmetics. There were enough brushes, powders and paints to stock the local DIY store.

  On the wall above the dresser was a large portrait of a reclining nude, and it was clearly an original. It was painted in garish colours - probably what was referred to as abstract art - and didn’t resemble real life, or hold any titillation. The face had a familiar look, though. From his back pocket, Harry withdrew the photo of Mollie. Even allowing for the dramatic style of brushwork, there was a strong resemblance. He leaned in close. Mollie had signed the corner of the painting, and it was dated the previous year. Harry studied the artwork for a few more seconds before turning away, idly wondering if the girl was as big breasted in real life.

  Above the bed was a cloth wall hanging, not much smaller than the bed’s throw. This too, though made of thinner cotton, was similar in its bright colours and sequins. Harry stared at it for a moment. Something wasn’t quite right. Other than the fact it wasn’t level - it was only slightly askew - it looked ok; but it was enough to offend his sense of precision and warrant a closer look. Harry’s eye was drawn to the top corners of the cloth, where it was pinned to the plasterboard wall with large drawing pins. That was when he realised what it was that had been bothering him, yet had been unable to put his finger on. In the wall, around the top corners of the cloth, were numerous tiny holes. Harry moved towards the cloth, gripped a lower corner, and raised it to look behind. ‘Well, well,’ he said to himself. He gave the cloth a sharp tug. It fell down, revealing a very large mirror fixed to the wall. As Harry looked into it, he realised it was perfectly in-line with the mirrored dresser on the opposite wall. Judging by the many additional pin holes in the plastered wall, Mollie certainly got plenty of use out of the mirror.

  He then turned his attention to the wardrobe. It was full. Some of the labels had names even Harry had heard of, so they were probably not cheap. Even though the rails where filled from end-to-end, there were some large gaps, and if the missing clothes were anything like the remaining ones on either side, they didn’t seem suitable for the British climate at that time of the year.

  He moved on to the draws of the dresser. The top drawer was full of knickers, the second of bras, and like the wardrobe, a large clump was missing from each, suggesting packing had been done in haste. Harry’s experience of women - which was vast and plentiful - was that a woman would always pack a selection of underwear; some for everyday and some for ‘special occasions’. The third and last drawer, revealed a mixture of items: stockings and suspenders, PVC underwear, sex toys, pornographic magazines and DVDs; even a bullwhip. Harry was beginning to think his experienced opinion of women was a little outdated.

  Pulling over the dresser stool, he used it to stand on and inspect the top of the wardrobe. Like most free-standing wardrobes, it was a haven for dumped and abandoned items: shoe boxes, little-used handbags, a rucksack, and a large suitcase were just a few. There was also a square of empty space, defined by the lack of dust, to suggest the absence of an overnight bag or a small suitcase.

  Harry decided it was time for a brew, and some thinking.

  Back in the kitchen, he boiled the kettle, and pre-warmed a mug by rinsing it with a little hot water, before then putting in a teabag and filling it. Having already noted the age of the milk, he opted to have his tea black. Placing the mug on an out of date television magazine which sat on top of a dust-filmed coffee table, he then slumped onto the sofa and stretched out his legs, resting his heels on the edge of the coffee table.

  He gazed around the room, trying to imagine Mollie living there, seeking inspiration. To one side was a small wood framed bookcase made of the ever increasingly popular Indian wood. On top was what looked to Harry to be an MP3 Docking Station - Harry had only just started using CDs - and in it was what looked to be an MP3 Player, which struck him as a little odd. To Harry, people appeared as slavishly attached to their MP3 players as they did their mobile phones, so it seemed odd that Mollie didn’t have hers with her.

  As he sipped his tea, he brooded over the missing girl’s whereabouts. The more he thought about it, the more he thought she’d simply gone away, abroad maybe; ‘Done-a-runner’, if you like. If she had, she’d probably done it to piss off her father. And having met the man, he couldn’t really blame her.

  Harry was unsure whether he should be getting involved i
n family disputes, and whether five grand was worth the aggravation. Aggravation he didn’t need. He wondered if he were to prove to Patrick that his daughter was alive and well, yet not reveal her whereabouts, whether that would placate him enough to stump up the five grand. What Harry was sure about, was that he was out of his depth. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that this would “end in tears”, as his mother used to say.

  Once his mug was empty, and his brain equally so of inspiration, he decided he’d better make a move.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Doorman’s official job title was now ‘Head of Security’, looking after the Boss’s nightclubs. Unofficially, it was ‘Enforcer’, solving the Boss’s problems. Of which, so far, there had been few.

  Today, at the Boss’s request, he was driving his employer and mentor to visit his ailing mother. Unusual. In that he’d been asked, and not the Boss’s regular driver. The Head of Security was wearing a tailored suit, driving his own car. A sports car. An XJS. The Boss had cast an appreciative eye around the car. He’d also commented on the young man’s suit, the cut of the cloth, that he’d taken his advice and gone to his own tailor. The Boss could see the young man growing in confidence.

  He was pleased.

  During the journey, the Boss gave directions and made small talk. He also intimated he had something to ask of his Head of Security. They would discuss it later.

  The young man wondered why. Why he was favoured. Was he favoured? What was it the Boss wanted? Everybody wanted something, didn’t they? That had always been his experience from as far back as he could remember.

  In the car park, the Head of Security looked through his windscreen at a modern building. A private hospital. Discreet signs indicated direction and department.

  Authoritarian... institutional.

  The young man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel.