by Andy Wiseman
Harry opened the front door to his flat, peered out into the lobby, and for a moment listened intently, still not in the mood for conversation or company. Seeing the coast was clear, he retrieved his pile of mail and morning newspapers from the table, to then retreat back into his flat.
He dumped the pile onto his kitchen table, and then sat down to sift through it. He was surprised to see there were two early morning newspapers in the pile; Thursday and Friday’s. Harry frowned. The newspaper he’d brought into the flat on his return from the police station was also still on the kitchen table; it was dated Wednesday.
Surely I haven’t been asleep for two days, he thought, as he looked out through the French doors and to the small garden beyond, dimly lit from the overspill of the kitchen light.
He switched on the wall mounted television, to then select a twenty four hour news channel. It was indeed Friday. His mobile phone was also on the kitchen table. He glanced at the screen: no missed calls. He clearly remembered asking Steve and Izzy to let him know about Mollie.
Harry dialled Izzy’s mobile; it went straight to voicemail. He then dialled the number for the North London Gazette, even though he suspected it was unlikely she would be there at that time of night on a Friday. He was informed Izzy was on annual leave that day. Harry then - reluctantly, because he hated anything to do with the old bill - phoned Willesden nick, only to be told the same thing: that D.C. Marshall was on leave. What the fuck was going on? And what the fuck were they doing about Mollie? He tossed his phone down onto the table, disgusted. Surely, he asked himself, Stephen was doing something about getting Mollie out of that club?
On reflection - after he’d calmed down - Stephen was the one person who could be relied upon to do the right thing. Providing it was within the law, that is. But Harry still had the hump. He was also starving hungry. Having finally mastered the new grill’s multi-function display, he then cooked himself beans on toast, with a side order of eight slices of heavily buttered toast. This cooking malarkey is a piece of cake, he thought, and then wished he’d been adventurous enough to have bought fresh eggs and bacon to have done a fry-up.
After his meal, he enjoyed a large mug of tea, content to watch the news, until it started to repeat itself. Only then did his concentration start to wander, his gaze turning more to the garden outside, rather than the television. He picked up the TV remote and pressed the standby button. For a while he sat in complete silence, staring out at his small courtyard garden, his gaze repeatedly returning to the stone feature, buried beneath which was the urn that contained his mother’s ashes.
Harry knew, with a heavy heart, that he’d got some thinking to do. A decision had to be made. With that, he went in search of a bottle of whisky, a glass, and his recently purchased - yet still unopened - packet of cigarettes. Tightening the belt to his bathrobe while slipping on a pair of Rigger work boots, he then stepped outside into the garden. It was a cold and crisp November evening, with the night sky clear of cloud cover, reducing the light pollution and allowing a handful of stars to shine through. There might be a frost tonight, he thought, as he gazed up at the London night-time sky.
Once seated on the garden bench with his bathrobe pulled tight against the chill, a glass of whisky in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, he then took a large swallow of his drink, feeling the burn as it trickled down his throat, and the satisfaction of its warmth spreading throughout his body. Turning his attention to the Greek urn, he said, quietly, ‘Hello, mother. How are you?’ He always asked his mother how she was, which was stupid really, considering she was dead. But Harry felt it was only polite and courteous to do so. And, while Harry wasn’t a religious man, he liked to believe there was something after this mortal life. What? He really didn’t know. He just didn’t want to believe the end was a pile of ash, or rotting flesh and decaying bones.
For a moment, he paused, as he wondered what to say, where to start. He found himself reflecting on how tired and weary he often felt - physically and mentally. He told his mother how he wasn’t getting any younger, and didn’t seem to be able to take the knocks as easily; how he felt the pain more, and how the bruises seem to take longer to fade. He told her how difficult he found it going straight, trying to do the right thing, and that staying on the straight and narrow was like having one hand tied behind your back; that it wasn’t a perfect world in that the injustices far outweighed the justices; that playing by the rules, being on the side of right, was not the winning side.
As Harry quietly told his mother of his struggle, of his anguish, he realised he’d developed a conscience, that he cared. Christ, when the fuck did that happen? What he also realised - and found more unsettling - was that he felt vulnerable, even - God forbid - scared.
Harry then wondered when he’d become afraid. Was it his recent ordeal? No, before that. Was it when he was a child and would be beaten? No, he’d stopped being afraid of that sort of pain after the first few beatings. No, it was when he was arrested at his mother’s bedside, when he realised he would not be there for her in her last moments.
Harry’s mind drifted back. He was in Lillian’s study. The room was softly lit by an old-fashioned standard lamp that stood in the corner, a tall, elegantly hand carved piece of wood, topped with a parchment-like shade that depicted an image of a street scene from Tudor times, its light spilling downwards over an old leather Chesterfield armchair in which Harry was comfortably sitting reading a book which he had selected from Lillian’s large collection. On one side of Harry was the fireplace in which a fire had been lit, the coals radiating a physical and visually comforting warmth. On the other side was a large imposing hospital bed, in which lay the gaunt and fragile sleeping form of Harry’s foster mother, Lillian.
As Lillian’s health had rapidly deteriorated, and the extent of the cancer had become clear, and with pain management being the only option left open, Harry had had Lillian brought home from the hospital, hiring professional carers to administer to her needs: preparing her food, monitoring and controlling her medication, and tending to her personal hygiene; all of this, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
The only sounds in the room to be heard were the gentle hiss and crackle of the fire, the rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock, and the intermittent sound of pages being turned, until a soft, yet polite tap was to be heard at the study door. Harry quietly stood, crossed the room, and then opened the door to one of Lillian’s carers, who smiled politely as she silently handed Harry a bowl of food, before turning to leave. Easing the door closed, Harry returned to Lillian’s bedside, where he gently roused her from sleep.
‘Hello, Henry,’ said Lillian, softly.
‘Hello, Lillian,’ replied Harry.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine. You?’
Lillian smiled weakly. ‘The usual. Tired.’
‘Hungry?’ Harry asked her.
Lillian gave the merest of shrugs. Her body had become so weak, her digestive system was unable to cope with solid food, so what little she was inclined or able to eat would first have to be cooked, and then blended to a puree. Harry had also consulted a top nutritionist on the best possible diet for Lillian, to ensure she got the minerals, vitamins and nutrients that were vital to help keep her strength up, not that it would make any difference in the long-run; Harry just wasn’t prepared to give up and accept the inevitable outcome.
After electronically raising the bed head to a comfortable angle, and then checking the temperature of the bowl’s content, Harry proceeded to gently and patiently feed Lillian small but manageable amounts of the prepared food. He always took his time, he never rushed; just the effort of swallowing the food left Lillian drained and exhausted. Harry preferred to be the one to give Lillian her meals. He felt it was one of the few things he was able to do for her, that didn’t require medical qualification, or the loss of her dignity - and dignity was about all she had left.
He spent a lot of time in that armchair, w
atching over the woman who’d raised him, sometimes reading to her when she was awake, often sleeping in it when she wasn’t.
‘How’s the food?’ he asked her, making conversation. Lillian pulled a face. ‘It’ll help,’ he told her.
‘Silly boy,’ said Lillian, with a sad smile.
Harry shifted, uncomfortable.
‘How was your day?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘The usual,’ Harry replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Ran an errand for Mr Solomon.’
‘And how does he feel about you spending so much time here, rather than you... working?’
Harry again, merely shrugged.
After a moment, Lillian asked, ‘What kind of errand?’
While Harry had never been totally candid with Lillian about the full nature of his employment and what it was exactly that he did for Mr Solomon, she had never asked and as he had always hoped she never would, he didn’t want to enlighten her. He certainly didn’t want her to know the truth, because he knew she would be disappointed in him. The “errand” he’d just referred to had been a long-term outstanding debt that Mr Solomon had asked Harry to collect for him by using his ‘skills’ in persuading the debtor to see the error of his ways, which Harry had duly done as, in turn, did the debtor.
The debtor was a used car salesman based in Kilburn, which is where Harry had found him at his half empty car lot, sitting in a squalid Portakabin that served as an office. Harry guessed the car salesman to be in his early sixties, and judging by the accent, originally from South East London; he was a big-old-lump, with an attitude to match. Also in the Portakabin was probably the biggest black man Harry had ever seen, who said nothing, just glared at Harry, giving him the eye: hired muscle.
The car salesman had been full of excuses. He was also not happy with Mr Solomon’s interest rates. He said he couldn’t pay. Didn’t want to pay. In fact, had no intention of paying, he finally decided, flicking a glance across at the big black man for support. Harry told the car salesman that Mr Solomon didn’t like people who took the piss, or showed him disrespect. Harry then told the car salesman, that due to personal reasons, family reasons, he really wasn’t in a good frame of mind for any aggravation.
The car salesman’s response wasn’t favourable.
It was at this point that Harry had used his skills of persuasion - on both men. Once he’d finished, he’d taken what money was in the petty cash box, and every set of car keys to the cars parked on the lot, with the intention of sending a crew back for them later.
Harry didn’t want to contemplate what Lillian would think if she knew the debtor had been hospitalised, as he looked up to meet her cool gaze, trying to find the right words.
‘I’ve known Henry Solomon for a very long time,’ she told him, ‘and I’m aware of his business interests, legitimate and...’ She paused, partly through reluctance to voice the word aloud, and partly to catch her breath.
Harry offered her a glass of water with a straw, from which she took a few sips. Not for the first time, did he find himself musing at the nature of the friendship between his foster mother and Mr Solomon. Over the years, Henry Solomon’s visits to Lillian’s home had only been occasional, and in more recent times, rarer still.
‘As you know, I never had children of my own. Wasn’t able to. So I never experienced the joy in hearing the word mother,’ she said, smiling wistfully. ‘I was always conscious that you and Stephen had not had what could be called the best start in life. When you came to me I so very much wanted to make you happy. To see you happy. To try and make up for all of life’s hurts. I was conscious you had both spent time in Children’s Homes, and I didn’t want the two of you to go from one strict regime to another. I wanted you to experience the joy in playing as children should.
To enjoy what few remaining years of childhood were left to you, before entering into adulthood, and becoming individuals in your own right.’ Lillian paused for a moment, closing her eyes, and to catch her breath. When they fluttered open, Harry offered some more water, which she gratefully took before continuing. ‘It was my dearest wish that, despite your troubled formative years, you would both turn out to be fine young men. Moral and upstanding. Knowing right from wrong. But, more than anything else, being happy and content.’ Lillian’s gaze drifted from Harry to the open fire, her tired eyes taking on a faraway look before finally saying, ‘I have to confess, the role of being a parent was... daunting. I was unprepared. I’m not sure whether or not I made a good job of it, of being a moth... a foster mother.
‘You did a great job,’ said Harry, reassuringly. ‘Nobody could have done better. We’re both happy and content, and we both know what’s right and what’s wrong. Stephen took the path of right. I... well,’ he said, with a wry smile, before offering some more food and leaving the sentence incomplete.
When Lillian had had enough, Harry offered her some more water, and then, with a tenderness only ever witnessed by Lillian and her carers, took a napkin and gently dabbed her mouth, before then ensuring that her covers were straight, and she was comfortable.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked, seeing a book resting on the arm of the chair.
‘Macbeth,’ he replied, picking up the book.
‘Ah, the ‘Scottish play’,’ she said, referring to the play by the name used by many in the theatrical world, rather than its original name, which was said to bring bad luck if uttered aloud. ‘One of Shakespeare’s finest, and shortest, plays. Read to me,’ she said to Harry, with a tired smile.
So Harry read to her. He read it aloud, and in the manner intended - in iambic pentameter, breathing life into the words, and bringing an expression of contentment to Lillian’s face. Every now and again Harry would look up to check on her. After a while, seeing that she was tiring, Harry stopped. ‘Do you need to rest?’ he asked, gently.
‘Some might say, Henry, that you, Macbeth, and the play have some similar traits. In that you are at war with yourself,’ she teased, smiling. ‘My prince amongst thieves.’
Harry merely raised an eyebrow, and smiled back. He watched Lillian turn away, her eyes slowly close, and the smile slip from her face. His gaze shifted to see the barely noticeable, but reassuring, rise and fall of the duvet. He sat and watched her for a while. Then, just when he thought she’d slipped into sleep, she spoke.
‘There is something you ought to know... have a right to know... about your employer. About Henry Solomon.’ Lillian opened her eyes and turned back to Harry. ‘Firstly, you must be very careful -’
Harry frowned, opening his mouth to speak, until Lillian, with the slightest shake of her head, and a feebly raised hand, stopped him. Instead, he leant forward to gently take her skeletal hand in his, painfully reminded of her frailty, and waited while she gathered her thoughts.
‘I have often struggled with my conscience on this... whether I should tell you... whether I have the right to tell you,’ she said, looking into his eyes with what Harry could only describe as a look of despair and sadness.
With a heavy heart, he waited.
‘Henry, you are -’
The sound of the front doorbell shattered the tranquil peace, cutting Lillian short. Harry’s smile faded as he glanced up at the grandfather clock, and the late hour. In the hallway, the footsteps of the carer could be heard, followed by the sound of the front door being opened, the murmur of voices, and then the door being closed, followed by more footsteps.
Harry watched the door handle of the study door, turn and then open. There in the doorway, in uniform and looking very ill at ease, stood Stephen. ‘I don’t believe I heard you knock, Stephen,’ said Harry, in a low voice. ‘You also appear to be in uniform.’
Stephen shifted from one foot to the other, appearing reluctant to enter the room, a decision that was made for him by the impatience of the man waiting behind, as he roughly brushed past and around the young constable, forcing him to step meekly to one side. The man with the sneer on his pockmarked face - who was not in u
niform - introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Carson. He then, without a trace of sincerity, apologised for the lateness of the hour and wished Lillian a speedy recovery, before turning to Harry, and informing him he was being arrested for possession of drugs with intent to supply.
The stunned silence that followed seemed loud and long.
Harry just stared at Carson, a part of him wanting to believe it was a wind-up, but knowing it wasn’t; he only had to look at Carson’s cruel grin to see that it wasn’t. He looked back towards Stephen, who was doing his best to look anywhere but in Harry and Lillian’s direction. ‘Stephen,’ said Harry, ‘is this true?’ Stephen glanced at Harry, nodded his head briefly, and then dropped his gaze, shamefaced, towards his feet.
Harry - who’d barely moved since the unexpected arrival of their visitors - felt Lillian grip his hand with a fierceness and strength that belied her frailty. Her grasp had also reminded Harry of where he was - in the presence of a dying woman. His shock and surprise were quickly replaced by anger. At that moment he could quite easily have killed Carson. But that was not the place, was not the time.
Fighting to control his fury, he informed Detective Sergeant Carson that he would be allowed to put the handcuffs on him, but only outside of that room. After only a moment’s hesitation, and seeing the fierce expression in Harry’s eyes, Carson agreed.
Harry gently squeezed then kissed the back of Lillian’s hand, before getting to his feet, to then lean over and quietly tell her it was all a big misunderstanding, promising he’d be back to finish reading the Scottish play to her. He looked into her smiling face, into the kindly eyes that were now filling with tears, and struggled to quell the fear that he was abandoning her at her time of greatest need - and that it might also be the last time he’d see her.
He kissed her on the forehead, told her he loved her, and called her mother for the first, and what was to be the last, time. He then left the house and was - eventually - arrested in the front garden.
