by Andy Wiseman
Joining a growing queue of travellers at the automatic barriers, he shuffled along, swiped his travel card, and then passed through the opened gate and towards the escalator which would take him down into the bowels of the earth. He could hear the sound of trains, coming from below, arriving and departing, closely followed by a blast of displaced warm air that would wash over the travellers.
Harry was being swept along amongst a sea of bodies and towards the platforms. He was struggling to breathe. It was hot, and there wasn’t enough fresh air. A train hurtled out of the tunnel, braking hard to finally come to a stop. The doors opened, and the passengers who alighted were immediately swallowed up by the mass of bodies waiting to board.
Harry felt himself being pressed forward towards the open doors. Despite the heat, he felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat. His eyesight was blurred, and he was having difficulty in focusing. He was starting to panic.
He turned, forcing his way - none too gently - back through the crowd and to the rear of the platform, where he pressed his back against the cool tiled wall, fighting for breath. Once the train had pulled away, and the platform was almost deserted, he then hurriedly made his way towards the exit. He took the escalator two steps at a time, heading up towards fresh air, sunlight, and open space - and good old London buses.
When Harry walked into the main lobby of Mollie’s college, the place was buzzing with youthful chatter and animated exuberance. He looked around, finding it hard to believe that most of the kids were in their late teens; they looked like they should still be in junior school. He was also surprised to see the college employed private security guards.
He made his way to the college library.
Unlike the lobby, the library was a haven of serenity, where students sat quietly, studying books and computers.
He approached a service desk. Behind it was a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties, not too tall in height, and, what could be called, broad in the hips. Her thick hair was more grey than dark, and cut short. She wore dark grey trousers with a navy blue pullover, and wire rimmed glasses. ‘I’ve brought these back,’ said Harry, dropping two of Mollie’s library books onto the countertop.
‘Good for you,’ replied the Librarian, without looking up from her computer screen.
Harry stood waiting. He hadn’t been in a library since he was a kid. Did they still stamp books in and out? Or was it all somehow computerised. He wasn’t sure.
The Librarian finally reached over for the books. She started to type. ‘These are out of date,’ she said, as a matter of fact.
‘Yes, I -’
‘There’ll be a fine to pay,’ she said, interrupting.
Harry reached into his pocket for some loose change. ‘That’s okay. I don’t mind paying -’
‘And you’re not Mollie Dolan, are you?’ said the Librarian, as she looked up at Harry over the top of her glasses.
‘How very perceptive of you,’ he replied, smiling, struggling to suppress the sarcasm in his voice.
The Librarian’s very bushy eyebrows knitted together in a frown. ‘Boyfriend?’ she asked.
‘Please,’ replied Harry, ‘I’m old enough to be her father. I prefer my women a little more... mature.’ With that, he gave her one of his best smiles.
‘It wouldn’t matter a jot to that one,’ she said, impervious to Harry’s charm. ‘So, who are you?’ she asked, raising her voice slightly.
Aware that people in close proximity were starting to take notice of his protracted conversation with the Librarian, Harry replied, ‘A fellow student,’ then instantly regretted it as the Librarian raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A mature student,’ he added, as if in explanation.
The Librarian raised the other eyebrow. ‘Is that what you call it,’ she replied. ‘There’s mature, and there’s old.’
Harry scowled; annoyed. This wasn’t going as planned. His intention had been to ask a few simple questions. He looked at the Librarian, mentally weighing up how much effort it would require to drag her over to his side of the desk to answer some simple questions. Thing was, he didn’t believe in violence against women - and she probably wasn’t worth the hernia, anyway.
‘Look,’ said Harry, ‘I just wanted to ask -’
‘Ten pounds, please,’ said the Librarian.
‘What?’
‘Ten pounds is the cost of the fine.’
‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking, me.’
‘I don’t joke,’ she replied, ‘and there’s no need for profanity.’
Harry hesitated, wondering whether to continue or to leave it. He didn’t like being ripped-off. Across the room, he spotted a security guard strolling. He dropped a ten pound note onto the desk, turned, and then walked away. He didn’t need the aggravation. Seeing a sign for the cafeteria, he headed in that direction for a well earned brew, and maybe a few questions answered.
The cafeteria was busy. Harry went from table to table, showing Mollie’s photo to the seated students, at which - as Harry loomed over them - they would quickly glance, before then shaking their heads and looking away.
Harry realised he wasn’t getting anywhere; the students were either more interested in their food, or they felt intimidated.
He tried a different approach. Walking through to a lounge area where there were sofas, armchairs, and a bank of vending machines, he got a cup of tea from one of the machines, and then chose a chair close by to settle down in.
As students passed or used the machines, Harry would show the photograph and ask if they’d seen her. Some said they knew Mollie; some said they knew of her. But none seemed to know her well, and none had seen her recently.
Harry was beginning to feel he was wasting his time, until a boy and a girl approached the machines. Harry studied them. Both were dressed in black with hair colour to match. The girl had a large number of facial piercings that Harry found morbidly fascinating; the boy had only a nose ring and bottom lip pierced - but where he lacked piercings, he certainly made up for with facial spots. Harry concluded that these must be what are known as ‘Goths’.
‘Seen enough?’ said the girl to Harry, when she noticed him staring at her.
Harry showed them Mollie’s photo, and asked if they’d seen her recently. The girl just shrugged her shoulders while looking Harry over, weighing him up; the boy just grinned, inanely.
Harry asked the question again.
‘Might have,’ the girl replied.
The boy just sniggered.
‘Well?’ asked Harry, getting impatient.
The girl confirmed they’d gone to some of the same lectures; occasionally sat together. ‘Are we friends?’ she replied, in answer to another question. ‘Yeah, right. Anyway, what’s it got to do with you?’
‘Yeah,’ said the boy, speaking for the first time, ‘who are you? Her dad?’
‘A family friend.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said the girl, ‘you look and act like her. All attitude. High-and-mighty.’
Harry, who wasn’t known for his patience, unfolded himself from the armchair, to stand to his full height, forcing the boy and girl to take a step backwards, giggles and grins quickly disappearing. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve got more attitude than you’ve got pimples and piercings. So, stop fuckin’ me around, and tell me if you’ve seen her.’
They both vigorously shook their heads, and meekly replied that they hadn’t seen Mollie for almost a week. They did however, give him the names of some of the bars where she liked to hang out.
CHAPTER 12
Feeling slightly more human for having had a shower, Izzy was once again sitting at her kitchen table. Now wearing a pair of baggy jogging bottoms, one of Jonathan’s old rugby shirts, and with her damp hair pulled back into a small pony tail, she was on her second coffee of the day. On the table in front of her was her laptop computer, open and ready for the purpose of researching Saint Aiden’s church for the article her editor had asked her to write. But she was bored
. She found her attention constantly drawn to looking out of the window, daydreaming. She was dreaming of working for a proper newspaper, when the ringing of her mobile interrupted her thoughts. The caller display said ‘Daddy’.
‘Hello, Daddy.’
‘Hello, Sweetheart,’ replied her father. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. You?’
Izzy and her father made small talk. They rarely discussed work and the North London Gazette outside of the office. Not that Izzy’s father was often in the office. He was very much a hands-off proprietor. He preferred to leave the day-to-day running of the paper to his editor. He was also very much aware his daughter wasn’t happy with her job, and that she felt she should be in a better position. For that he blamed himself, for spoiling his daughter and giving in to her demands.
‘Are you ok?’ asked her father. ‘You don’t sound too good.’
‘It’s just a head cold,’ Izzy lied.
‘Why don’t you come round for Sunday lunch,’ suggested her father. ‘Bring Jonathan with you. Your mother would love to see you.’
‘Stepmother, Daddy. And me and Jonathan are having... err... a bit of a break.’ Though I’ve yet to tell Jonathan!
‘Oh,’ said her father. ‘Well, you’re still welcome, of course. Give it some thought, yes?’
‘I will. Thank you. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Sweetheart,’ said her father, disconnecting.
Izzy knew her father wasn’t big on talking about emotions. Probably just as well, she thought, sighing, as she turned to look out the window.
She found her thoughts turning to Jonathan. They’d been seeing each other for almost three years, engaged for the last two, yet neither of them seemed to want to push the relationship any further on. Maybe we’re both afraid of total commitment.
Izzy decided to push all thoughts of Jonathan out of her head before she got herself emotionally wound-up, but in doing so, she then found her thoughts straying to Harry, and before she could stop herself, the thoughts she’d had in the shower. She felt herself flush with embarrassment, which annoyed her. She was a grown woman for Christ’s sake, why should she feel embarrassed about such thoughts in her own home?
To distract herself, she moved her finger across the mousepad of her laptop, to bring the blank screen springing back to life, and the page she’d been viewing - which had absolutely nothing to do with Saint Aiden’s church. Just before her father had called - on the spur of the moment and out of curiosity - she’d typed ‘Harry Windsor’ into Google’s search engine. Unsurprisingly, most entries had been about Prince Harry of the British Royal Family. She’d then tried typing the name, ‘Henry Windsor’. She knew Harry’s given name was Henry, from when she’d searched for him on the Register of Electors. Again, most of the entries had been for Prince Harry; though there had been a few other Royals from the past (Dukes and Barons), and also one or two notables from the world of science and medicine: but no gangsters.
‘Facebook!’ she said, loudly, to no one other than herself. ‘Gottcha, Harry Windsor. Everyone’s on Facebook.’ She first typed Harry, and then Henry, into the Facebook search engine. There were plenty of people called Harry and Henry Windsor, just not her Harry... that sounded weird, she thought. Her Harry.
Izzy rested her elbows on the table, cupped her face in her hands, and stared at her computer screen. She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Harry wasn’t a Facebook-kind-of-guy... more of a mugshot-book-kind-of-guy. She laughed out loud at her own joke, and then winced as her headache reminded her she had a hangover.
She then tried a different approach. She Googled ‘gangster’. There were hundreds of entries. Some about gangster films, some about popular music with gangsters as the theme - generally rap music - and then there were the articles from newspapers and books on organised crime: this was the trail she started to follow.
Eventually, after three hours of trawling through hundreds of articles, she found what she was looking for: an old article on organised crime in London reported the collapse of the criminal trial of a man called Henry Solomon, an antique dealer who was on trial for allegedly masterminding a string of robberies, money laundering, and a variety of other crimes. The trial had collapsed after the key witness had mysteriously disappeared.
There was a photograph of Henry Solomon descending the court steps to a waiting car. The photograph was small and grainy, but Izzy could clearly see he was elegantly dressed in a three piece suit with a cravat, and that he carried a walking cane. Dapper was probably the word to describe him, she thought.
She peered closer. In the background, a few feet behind Solomon, was another man. He was also smartly dressed, had a closely shaved haircut, and came across as having an unmistakeable air of confidence about him. He was turned away from the camera, in profile, but she was sure it was Harry, the faithful lieutenant.
CHAPTER 13
It was late afternoon and Harry was in a bar opposite Mollie’s college, its close proximity making it a popular choice with the students. In his lap was an open copy of the Evening Standard newspaper. On the table in front of him was a pint of ale and a whisky chaser: it’d been that kind of a day. His head was still buzzing from conversations he’d had, and questions he’d asked. He’d spent most of the day showing Mollie’s photograph to anyone who was prepared to listen. Along with local shopkeepers and traders, he’d asked students and college staff. In fact, he’d asked enough people to cause enough concern, that he was asked to leave the college premises by the security staff.
Unable to concentrate on his newspaper, Harry was now people watching. The alcohol had started to take effect. He could feel the warm glow of the whisky spreading throughout his body, his racing mind beginning to slow. He was idly staring into space, enjoying the moment, when he became vaguely aware someone was approaching him.
Two young women stood before him: a rake-thin peroxide Blonde, and a dumpy Brunette. ‘Are you the guy looking for Mollie Dolan?’ asked the Brunette.
Harry was wondering how they knew to ask him, until he saw the spotty faced Goth at the bar, looking over towards them. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.
‘Are you the police? Is she in trouble again?’ asked the Blonde.
Her comment made Harry pause for thought before answering. ‘No, I’m not the police. Mollie’s father hasn’t heard from her. He’s concerned.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said the Brunette. ‘The only thing he’s concerned about is his wallet.’
‘Are you friends of hers?’ asked Harry.
‘We hang out together sometimes,’ replied the Blonde.
‘So, you any idea where she is?’ Harry asked again.
Both girls just shrugged their shoulders. ‘Mollie’s her own woman,’ said the Brunette. ‘She’s probably shacked up with her new smackhead of a boyfriend, having a drug fuelled shag-a-thon.’ This made both of the girls giggle.
Harry realised he hadn’t seriously considered a boyfriend being the reason for the girl’s disappearance. He recalled Patrick using a boyfriend as an excuse for Mollie’s mother’s benefit, so Harry had assumed there wasn’t a boyfriend. ‘Do you know who he is? Is he a student?’ he asked them.
‘No way,’ replied the Blonde. ‘Mollie likes her men rough and ready, with a low IQ. She likes to be in charge, if you know what I mean,’ she said, winking at Harry.
They turned to leave, giggling, until the Brunette stopped and turned back to Harry. ‘You do know she’s gone missing before, don’t you?’ They then turned and walked away, arm-in-arm, cackling loudly.
‘Bollocks!’ said Harry. He drained what was left of his pint, knocked back the whisky, and then scooped up his newspaper and headed for the door. He decided he would find a decent boozer on the way home, have a proper drink, and sod the consequences.
CHAPTER 14
It was early, and it was cold. Sal knew it was cold because he could feel it in his aging bones, and if he needed any conformation, all he had to do was br
eathe out, to see the vapour of his breath hang in the air. He briskly rubbed his hands together as he made his way from one portable gas heater to another. Out of the four heaters placed around the huge room that was Sal’s Boxing Academy, he only lit two: every penny counts. Besides, he told himself, you can’t mould kids into hardened fighters by pampering them.
Francisco Salvatori - Sal, for short - was a born and bred Italian. He’d moved to London in his late teens, to follow his childhood sweetheart and her family. It hadn’t been long after the swinging sixties, and London - in contrast to his small Italian home village - turned out to be a young man’s dream. The childhood sweetheart was soon forgotten.
After drifting through a number of dead-end jobs, he’d taken his hobby of amateur boxing professional and made it a career. But because he’d come late to the sport, and because he cut easily, he never managed to get into the big league, where the serious money was. But that was then, this was now. Sal still loved the sport, and what he enjoyed now was teaching the young kids, watching them learn the discipline of boxing which would serve them in later life. Some of them even went on to become professional boxers - though they usually moved on to a bigger and better gym when that happened, and who could blame them?
Sal’s gym was in a rundown part of Kings Cross, and the building, like Sal, had seen better days. He leased the first-floor of what had once been a two storey warehouse building; the ground-floor now split into three units: a mechanic’s body-shop, a mini-cab company, and self-storage. Unlike the ground-floor, the first-floor was mainly one large room, running from end-to-end, with one entire wall filled with old and ill fitting metal framed windows, through which, in the depths of winter, icy draughts would whistle, turning the place into an icebox, and forcing Sal to take a blowtorch to the frozen water pipes for the toilets and showers to work - not that any of the kids would use the showers in the winter. In the summer, it was like a greenhouse. The roof was of slate, where holes would frequently appear, allowing in inclement weather and nesting pigeons. On occasion, Sal would have to venture up into the attic space, past pile-upon-pile of pigeon droppings, to block-up a hole and prevent any further water finding its way through to the gym below. Over the years, Sal had often asked the letting agent if the owner would consider selling the building. Every time he’d asked, they’d said no, the owner wouldn’t sell; nor would they tell him who the owner was. He’d taught young kids to box there for almost thirty years; it was like a second home - though his present wife would argue it was his first, because he spent seven days a week there.
