by Andy Wiseman
Harry found himself relaxing, the tension and anger ebbing away. Maybe it was the whisky. Maybe it was the warmth of the fire. Or maybe it was the eloquent and rich baritone of the old man’s voice. This was how it used to be. He and the old man would occasionally spend an evening like this, talking: talking business, talking philosophy, talking life, the young Harry Windsor listening to the old man’s worldly wisdom with rapt attention. He had never quite been able to explain the ease in which he found himself when in the company of this patriarchal man.
Harry’s thoughts were abruptly brought back to the present when he heard his mother’s name mentioned. The old man was talking about how he had first met Harry’s foster mother, Lillian. He’d first seen her in a London fringe theatre production of a Chekhov play. He described how the young and beautiful actress had mesmerised the audience with her performance, receiving a standing ovation. How he’d followed her career.
This was all new to Harry. He’d never asked, never inquired as to what the connection was between Lillian and the old man. Other than the visit to Lillian’s home after Harry’s expulsion from school, the old man had rarely visited the property.
‘She was a wonderful woman, Henry,’ said Solomon. ‘A dear, dear friend. I do miss her.’ The fire crackled. ‘It’s funny,’ he said, after a pause, ‘we are such selfish creatures. We don’t really appreciate what we have until it has gone.’
Harry found himself speculating on the nature of the old man’s relationship with Lillian. She’d never spoken of Henry Solomon to Harry, other than telling him to be careful when he’d given her the news he was in the old man’s employ.
‘It was admirable how you nursed your mother in her last few months. And a shame your arrest for drug possession prevented you being there at the end.’
Harry felt a lump forming in his throat, as the memories of his mother’s dying days resurfaced. Memories he’d done his best to bury. Lillian’s final few months had been at home, bedbound, nursed by Harry and a team of carers before the incurable cancer finally took her. The carers, who came in daily, tended to her personal needs: food preparation - Lillian’s weakened condition meant she could only manage soups or liquidised food - and the administration of painkilling drugs. Harry tended to her remaining needs: feeding her, and company. He would talk to her, read her stories - Shakespeare was her favourite - or play her favourite music, anything to take her mind off the pain and discomfort. He would sit by her bedside while she was awake, and he would sleep by her bedside while she slept. And it was there, for the first time, he stopped calling her Lillian, and called her mother, and where he was momentarily rewarded with a pain free smile. It was also there the police came to arrest him on drug charges. Harry had pleaded with them to be allowed to stay by his mother’s bedside, but his pleas had been ignored. He had not gone quietly.
And it was there that Harry’s anger had been conceived.
Solomon could see the torment on Harry’s face, and could sense the anguish in his heart, and for the briefest of moments, he felt remorse. ‘I’ve never feared death, Henry. Though I have to confess, of late, what I do fear, maybe, is the nature of my death. Being alone when it happens. Frail and alone with no family, no friends.’ He paused. ‘Your mother’s passing was not a lonely one, Henry. She was not alone when she drew her last breath.’
Harry looked up at the old man, questioningly, the painful memories temporarily forgotten. Harry was in prison on remand and awaiting trial when his mother had passed away. He’d never enquired as to the manner of her passing, preferring the torment of ignorance rather than the confirmation his mother had been alone when she died.
‘I was there when she died. I held her hand as she passed away.’
Harry stared back at the old man in shocked surprise. ‘Was there any one else there?’ he asked.
‘If you mean your brother -’
‘Foster brother,’ said Harry, abruptly.
Solomon briefly paused, a strange look on his face that Harry could not read, before carrying on. ‘No. Your... foster brother was not there.’
Harry tried to weigh this news against the recent years of tormented ignorance.
‘Henry?’
Harry realised the old man had been talking, but he’d not heard what had been said. ‘Sorry,’ Harry replied.
‘I was saying, come back. Come back and work for me. It would be like the old days. The good old days. We are stronger together than we are separately. I have ideas, Henry. Big ideas. We can take on the new crime. Become a dominating force.’ The old man’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he spoke, and as he became more animated, the years seem to fall away from him.
Harry shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered. Then, more forcefully, ‘No! I made a promise.’
‘Henry, my dear boy -’
‘Don’t... please... Don’t call me Henry. My mother is... was... the only person to call me Henry.’
The old man held up a placating hand. ‘Of course, of course. Who more than a parent has the right to use the given name of their child? The mother has that right, of course... as does the father,’ he then said, looking at Harry in earnest.
Harry frowned. Where’s the old man going with this? What’s he implying?
‘I also made a promise once, too,’ said the old man, continuing. ‘A promise I never thought I was likely to keep.’ He looked down, to then pick at an imaginary piece of lint on his trouser leg. He sighed heavily. ‘Over the years, there have been many...’ he paused, searching for the appropriate words, ‘indiscretions,’ he finally said, looking at Harry, weighing him up. ‘Two of which, you could say, were... notable.’ The old man’s gaze, again dropped, to study his now empty glass, briefly wondering whether to get up and refill it, before then saying, ‘Stephen, your... foster brother, was one of them. The other -’
‘How do you mean?’ interrupted Harry, irritation creeping into his voice, a frown crossing his brow. ‘As in Old Bill? Him being a copper?’
‘No, no,’ replied the old man hastily, his attention still focused on his glass, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I had a relationship with Stephen’s mother,’ he said, raising his eyes. Harry’s frown deepened. ‘Stephen was a result of that relationship.’
Harry was stunned.
‘Stephen’s mother was a casual drug user, but she eventually became an addict. She died of an overdose while he was still a baby. Social Services took him into care.’
‘Stephen’s your son?’ said Harry, incredulously.
Solomon merely nodded.
‘Does he know?’
The old man shook his head, gave a small embarrassed cough.
CHAPTER 24
It’d been close to midnight when Harry left the old man’s house, though he had no recollection of doing so, or if he’d bid farewell, or of walking the few miles home. It wasn’t until he had to unlock his front door that he realised he was still holding the whisky glass the old man had given him earlier in the evening.
Harry was now sitting alone in his study, the only source of light the amber glow of a streetlight through the blinds. There was no comforting warmth from the fire, no soothing sounds of Cole Porter. Harry’s only company was a freshly cracked bottle of Scotch whisky, to ease his troubled mind. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long hard swallow, to then feel a trail of fire burn its way down his throat. It was going to be a long night of soul searching. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to search the very depth of his soul for answers.
It was late the next morning when Harry awoke, only to find he was lying face down on the study floor in his own vomit. Next to him lay the bottle of whisky. What little of its content Harry had not managed to consume was also on the floor. If Harry had found any answers last night, he couldn’t remember what they were. What he did know was that he had a major hangover.
CHAPTER 25
The combination of twilight and the streetlights’ first flickers of life went some way to masking Harry’s visual sense of the eigh
teen inch deep pan pizza in its cardboard packaging, which rested against the car steering wheel. His sense of smell however, was less fortunate. Having not eaten since the Sunday lunch at Izzy’s father’s house the day before, he’d convinced himself a stodgy pizza of cheese and tomato, onion, peppers, pepperoni, salami and pineapple was comfort food that would give him strength. The anchovies, however - a spur of the moment decision - may not have been such a good idea.
He chewed slowly and carefully, taking frequent sips of bottled water, while trying to focus on watching the first-floor flat across the road for signs of life. Unfortunately, the lack of activity led to Harry’s attention drifting. He had to concede his day had not started brightly. Waking up in your own vomit with the hangover from hell was bad enough, but finding flecks of blood in the vomit had caused him some concern. Harry could handle his drink - or so he believed - but he wondered whether he’d overdone it this time.
Once showered and dressed - he’d skipped the ritual of shaving as too much effort - he started his search for Cutter. Harry’s first port of call had been to what he believed was Cutter’s last known address, and, not surprisingly, from where he’d moved some time ago. Cutter had never been one to stay in the same place for long, always needing to be one step ahead of the law, or having to move due to complaints of antisocial behaviour from his neighbours. A visit to some of his old haunts of pubs, clubs, and eating places, also proved to be equally fruitless.
Footsore from walking the London streets, and still feeling like a bag of shite, he’d stopped at a burger van parked just off the High Street. The man bending over the encrusted hotplate was in his fifties, skinny, with thin lank hair tied back in a pony tail from a weasel-like face and a bad complexion; an unlit hand rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Harry watched the man ‘expertly’ move a pile of chopped onions, and what passed for a sausage, from one side of the hotplate to the other. Once they were neatly positioned, he looked up from his task, grinned a smile of rotting teeth, and then asked Harry what he wanted to eat. If Harry had been in two minds about whether he would be able to stomach any food, he was definitely now in one mind - and it was exalting the merits of vegetarianism. He considered a bottle of bland tasting spring water, that would no doubt go some way to rehydrating his alcohol ravaged body, but finally opted for a strong tea with four heaped sugars instead.
As the Weasel handed Harry his tea, he greeted him warmly, like a long lost friend. Harry returned a noncommittal greeting, unable to place if, or from where, he knew the man.
‘’Arry Windsor,’ the Weasel said. ‘The great ’Arry Windsor, eatin’ at my establishment. It’s an honour, ’Arry.’
‘Do I know you?’ Harry asked, wondering whether the man was taking-the-piss.
‘You once threw me - a little roughly in my opinion - out of one of the Je... Mr Solomon’s night clubs,’ he replied, quickly correcting himself when he remembered Harry’s loyalty to his employer had been legendary. ‘How’s life treating you these days, ’Arry? You don’t look too chipper - if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Harry just stared back, sipped at his tea, and then grimaced at the insipid taste that even four heaped sugars was unable to take away. ‘Rumour has it,’ the Weasel said, continuing, ‘that since your stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you no longer have ‘business’ dealings with Mr Solomon? Nice man, Mr Solomon. Got class. I occasionally do business with him myself,’ he added, as he pushed the onions and the sausage from one side to the other.
It had started to rain. Harry - safe under the van’s awning - turned to stare out at the passing London traffic. He watched the vehicles jockeying for position; bicycle couriers suicidally weaving in and out of an unforgiving stream of noise and excessive braking; beggars in doorways; Big Issue sellers; pedestrians rushing to their destinations, oblivious of everything and everyone.
‘... it’s completely changed. We’re overrun,’ said the Weasel.
‘What?’ replied an irritable Harry, having tuned out from what the man had been saying.
‘Immigrants, ’Arry. Place is overrun with the fuckers. Especially the ‘Eastern Europeans’ as the popular press likes to call them. Nasty bastards. You sure you wouldn’t like something to eat, ’Arry? I could do you a nice sausage and egg roll. I’ve got some organic eggs. Fresh from the chicken’s arse. They’re so fresh, they’re still warm. Would you like that, ’Arry?’
‘What I would like, you weasel-mouthed little fucker,’ replied Harry, whose headache was getting worse by the minute, ‘is for you to tell me where I can find Cutter. And don’t give me any crap about not knowing who he is, because if you’re familiar with me and Mr Solomon, you’ll know Cutter,’ said Harry.
The expression on the Weasel’s face suggested he’d shit his pants. ‘’Arry, ’Arry,’ he said, ‘no need to get aggressive.’
The Weasel flinched when Harry suddenly stepped forward only to pour the remaining contents of his tea over the hotplate. As the Weasel’s look of dismay dropped downwards, Harry’s arm shot out and upwards, grabbing the man around the back of the head, before then pulling his face down towards the hotplate.
‘Don’t fuck with me, you little shit,’ Harry told him.
Either the little shit didn’t have an appetite for his own food, or he was concerned about losing his good looks, thought Harry, as the Weasel started to tell him how he might go about finding Cutter.
‘I don’t know where Cutter is. Honest to God, ’Arry!’ he said. ‘Tricky Dicky! Talk to Tricky Dicky! He should know. He supplies ‘goods’ for Cutter’s sexual needs.’
Harry hadn’t heard of Tricky Dicky, but the Weasel proved kind enough to tell him where he could be found. With reluctance, Harry released his grip.
The address for Tricky Dicky turned out to be a porn shop on the Willesden High Street, a double-fronted building that had once been a fine looking structure, its brick and stone facade now neglected and weather beaten, its windows covered with black painted sheets of timber to hide the vulgarity of its present trade.
An electronic buzzer sounded as Harry entered. The layout of the shop was no different to the majority of other porn shops: wall-to-wall shelving filled with magazines, DVDs, and sex toys of a wide variety. A single counter stood at one end of the shop, on which was a cash register and a tall stack of cardboard boxes, the latter of which a young kid was busily unpacking.
The kid looked to be in his late teens, maybe early twenties; wore baggy jeans, baggy tee-shirt, a mass of unkempt hair, and facial fuzz that presumably passed for a beard.
Harry stood for a moment, waiting. The kid continued to unpack. It was only then that Harry noticed the thin white wires snaking out from the kid’s ears, disappearing beneath his tee-shirt. Probably one of those iPod things, he thought, as he called to the kid to attract his attention. With barely a glance in Harry’s direction, the kid pointed to a door in the corner of the room, mumbled something about being expected, then returned to the boxes.
After a moment’s hesitation, Harry decided to follow his instincts, rather than question what the kid had meant. He crossed to the corner of the room, pushed open the heavy door, then stepped into a long and dimly lit corridor that appeared to lead to the rear of the building, the fire door’s automatic closer softly closing the door behind him as he did so. As he headed towards a door at the far end of the corridor, he noticed the wallpaper was peeling, and that there was a heavy smell of damp. He also noticed what seemed like a vibration coming from the walls and through the carpet beneath his feet, increasing in strength as he walked, and when he placed his hand upon the door handle, he felt the vibration growing stronger and then louder as he pulled at the heavy fire door, to then step into yet another dimly lit room and have his senses assaulted. The loud techno beat of the music battered his hearing, while his sense of smell detected that old and familiar smell of pubs and clubs of long ago before the smoking ban: the smell of stale and fresh nicotine, mingled in with alcohol and body odour.<
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The room was about forty feet by twenty; at the far end was a small stage, where twin strobe lights highlighted a young girl gyrating around a vertically fixed metal pole to the heavy techno beat. Silver high heels with a matching silver thong to cover her modesty was all she wore, her small breasts bouncing as she went through her dance routine, almost robotic. To Harry - despite the heavy make-up which belied her youth - she looked tired and underfed. Probably on drugs, he thought.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the low level of light, he took a look around the room. The contents were a collection of mismatched chairs and tables that looked like they’d been purchased from a charity shop, along with some threadbare sofas that stood against the walls, all facing away from Harry and towards the stage. Sitting together at a table close to the stage were two male punters drinking and smoking, their eyes transfixed on the girl, mentally salivating over her every movement, devouring her buttocks and breasts while willing her to remove the thin scrap of silver cloth.
Harry then noticed a third punter on a sofa further back, also intently watching the girl. It was hard to tell in the gloom, but he seemed to be twitching, until Harry realised it was more of a rhythmic body movement: he was masturbating.
A few feet away from where Harry stood was a crudely built, plywood sheeted drinks bar with a cheap Formica top. He crossed to the end of the bar, the carpet sticky underfoot. Other than the usual range of bottled mixer drinks and optics for strong spirits, there were half a dozen glass fronted fridges containing a variety of bottles and canned drinks; nothing on draught, indicating to Harry it didn’t have a drinks license. That, and its covert location and the flouting of the smoke-free regulations, suggested it was an illegal drinking den.
