by James Green
‘That’s for me to say thank you, Father. It meant a lot to me and my mum.’
‘You’ve served longer than most. I suppose you got kidded about it?’
‘I never let it be a problem.’ Jimmy put out his hand. ‘Well, goodnight, Father. Thanks for everything.’
They shook hands.
Father Liam had come as a curate to Father McGinty five years ago. A keen and talented boxer himself, he had taken an interest in the parish boxing club. Jimmy had stood out immediately. It was the way he boxed, studying how to avoid punches as well as how to land his own. He seemed to allow himself to be hit so that he could study that as well. He had proved an apt pupil. But he resolutely refused to be entered for contests or take part in inter-club matches. It was as if he had some private agenda. With the effort and energy he put into his boxing, he was certainly going somewhere, wherever that might be.
It was nine o’clock, wet and dark. Across the High Road was The Hind, a big Edwardian pub. He decided to go in. The smoky bar was alive with conversation and laughter. Jimmy saw a face looking at him, a face he knew. He crossed to the bar.
‘On your own, Kevin?’
‘Sort of, I just stopped for a couple of quick ones then I’m off to meet some mates and we’ll go on up West.’
The barman came over. He was about Jimmy’s age. ‘Well, you gonna have a drink, mate, or just admire me?’
He spoke cheerfully in answer to Jimmy’s stare but no offence was intended and none was taken.
‘A pint of mild.’
The barman began to pull the dark pint and Kevin resumed.
‘But if you’re doing something, Jimmy, then stuff them, I’ll come with you.’
Kevin took a pull at the short he was drinking. It was like Kevin to drink shorts, if the barman would serve him at all that was. He looked anything from fourteen to eighteen if you looked at him carefully, but very few people bothered to look at Kevin, carefully or in any other way. There just wasn’t much to see.
The barman brought Jimmy’s pint of mild and was moving away to serve another customer when Kevin demanded loudly, ‘Another Irish when you’re ready.’
A short, fat man at the far end of the bar, wearing a flashy waistcoat and smoking a cigar, immediately got off his stool, went behind the bar, and came to where they were standing.
‘Did you bring him in here, mate?’ he asked Jimmy. Jimmy shook his head.
‘No, he was drinking here when I came in a minute ago.’ The fat man called over the barman who had served Jimmy.
‘George, did you serve this fucking lad here?’ He nodded at Kevin.
‘I suppose so, Mr Lonsdale.’
‘That’s it. Clear off, you’re fired.’
Lonsdale gestured across the bar at Kevin.
‘Look at the bloody little tosser. He doesn’t look fifteen, never mind eighteen. Even the friendliest bobby would have to do something if they found him drinking in here. I’m not risking my licence ’cos you’re too stupid to look at the punters when you serve them. Get your coat and get out.’
He looked across the room and shouted to a group at a table by the window. ‘Annie, want a bit of work tonight?’
A large, overdressed woman looked up from the table where she sat with another woman and two men.
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, behind the bar for the rest of the night.’ She rose awkwardly.
‘All right, Mr Lonsdale,’ she said sullenly. Lonsdale turned to Kevin.
‘You still here?’
Kevin stuck his lower lip out.
‘I’m eighteen. I can drink here if I want.’
Lonsdale leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You can catch a fucking ambulance from here if you want to, sunshine. There’ll be one leaving from just outside in five minutes.’
Kevin, with as much swagger as he could manage, drained his glass and turned to leave.
‘Me as well?’ asked Jimmy.
‘As you please, mate, it’s up to you.’
Jimmy decided he didn’t like Mr Lonsdale. He turned and walked towards the door. Kevin joined him and they left together. As they came out on to the street, the now ex-barman came out of another door, saw them, and walked up.
Kevin saw him and said hurriedly, ‘Up West, then, Jimmy, pull some birds, what do you say?’
Before Jimmy could reply, the ex-barman was beside them.
‘You lost me my fucking job. I think I owe you something for that, mate.’
Kevin was ready to run. This young man spoke with a confidence Kevin recognised. He rarely, if ever, meant what he said or delivered what he threatened, but he recognised others who would do exactly what they said and he was definitely one of these. All of his instincts told him to leg it but Jimmy’s voice stopped him.
‘You’re wrong, mate. Kevin didn’t lose you your job, you did it yourself.’
‘How the fuck d’you work that out?’
‘You served him. You should have thrown him out.’
‘Yeah,’ joined in Kevin, arrogant now he thought Jimmy would protect him, ‘you should have fucking thrown me out. I fucking well would have.’
Jimmy and George looked at each other, then at Kevin, then they both burst out laughing.
‘What’re you laughing at?’ Kevin asked, genuinely bewildered.
‘You’re right, mate. I lost my own job, didn’t I? You’re right.’
‘Yeah,’ said Kevin, who never knew when he was well off.
‘But why don’t I kick the shit out of you just for the fun of it – something to do now I’ve got time on my hands?’ and he stepped forward, but not before Kevin got Jimmy between them.
‘Yeah,’ said Kevin, ‘you going to take both of us on?’
‘Not me,’ said Jimmy, ‘this is between you two.’ He turned and began to walk away.
With Kevin’s prop gone, he obeyed the only god he truly believed in and legged it, shouting a string of obscenities over his shoulder. The ex-barman watched the rapidly moving figure for a second, then turned and joined Jimmy as he walked down the street.
‘I’m George.’
‘Hello,’ replied Jimmy without interest.
‘Got a name?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Where are you going, Jimmy?’
‘Home.’
‘No.’ George stopped Jimmy by catching his arm. Jimmy looked at him and he dropped his hand from the sleeve. ‘Sorry, no offence. But it’s too early to go home.’
Jimmy looked at George. He didn’t know him, he was certain of that. But the way George looked at him made him think George must know him.
‘You know me?’
‘Sure,’ said George as they resumed walking. ‘You’re Jimmy Costello. I saw you fight once.’
‘I never fought.’
‘Yes you did, at that local Catholic club. I went there to see you.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have noticed me. It was the night Joe Green offered you a contract. I was there.’
‘You know Joe Green?’
Green was a manager with fighters like Billy Shiels and Larry Horgan.
‘Not personally. Jack Lonsdale said Joe was going to see you, so I tagged along.’
‘Lonsdale? The bloke in The Hind?’
‘Yeah, it’s not his name over the door but it’s his pub.’
‘What’s he got to do with Joe Green?’
‘If you had signed you would have been sold on to Lonsdale.’
‘Is he a manager as well as a pub owner?’
‘He’s all sorts of things.’
‘And where do you fit in?’
‘I get around. I’m getting to know the right people. That’s how I got the job in The Hind.’
‘Didn’t last though, did it?’
‘That’s nothing. I made a mistake and got the elbow. If I’d made a real mistake,’ he smiled, ‘Lonsdale would have broken my elbow or some other bits.’
‘What are you telling
me?’ asked Jimmy, stopping. ‘Are you saying Lonsdale is a crook?’
‘No, no,’ laughed George, ‘he’s just a poor unemployed bloke who lives in Swiss Cottage and owns a Jag for weekdays and a Daimler for Sundays. He’s lucky with the horses, I guess, or got rich relatives or something. No one, and I mean not anyone, will ever hear me say Jack Lonsdale has ever broken any law, never.’ Then he winked. ‘Look, we’re nearly there now, let me show you something, somewhere special.’
‘No,’ said Jimmy firmly. He wasn’t interested in strip joints, dives, or girlie bars. He was still as uncomfortable with public sex as he was with obscenities in mixed company. His soul had never quite cast off its altar boy’s cassock and he always felt his mother would somehow be there, appalled and ashamed. He was attracted to sex but never comfortable with it.
George made a guess. He was a good guesser, that was one of his talents.
‘No, Jimmy, nothing like that. It’s a jazz club, next on the left, just a few doors down.’
Jimmy had heard jazz on the radio, but a jazz club was a new idea.
The club wasn’t in some smoke-filled basement as Jimmy had expected, it was over a launderette. They went up some stairs towards the sound of music. George insisted on paying for them both and they went inside. It didn’t look as Jimmy had expected either. It was quite well lit, but toned down to make an atmosphere and it wasn’t very smoky. The tables had blue gingham, plastic tablecloths and the customers were of all ages from thirty to sixty. The age group missing was Jimmy and George’s, who had no time for jazz because they had discovered rock ’n’ roll. They were the youngest there. On a small stage in a corner of the room was a trio: piano, double bass, and drums. The music was also not as Jimmy had expected and certainly wasn’t trad jazz. George led him to a table where a man and a woman in their thirties were already sitting. They nodded as George and Jimmy sat down.
‘Know them?’
George shook his head.
It was a friendly place then, thought Jimmy, and he began to listen to the music. The trio played for another twenty minutes. Apart from the clapping and shuffling of chairs between the pieces there was little movement. Then the lights went up to full and the pianist announced an interval. George got up.
‘Want a drink?’
‘No.’ Jimmy didn’t drink shorts and he didn’t think they’d serve mild.
George left the table and returned with a bottle of Coke and a glass.
‘No bar?’
‘Yeah, but it’s all wine and shorts, Dubonnet, stuff like that.’ He poured out some Coke and took a drink. ‘I don’t like alcohol, it gives me a headache.’
Jimmy found himself taking to George. ‘Like the music, Jimmy?’
Jimmy nodded.
‘The group’s not great but, then, they’re not expensive either.’ George poured the rest of his Coke. ‘Got a job, Jimmy?’
‘Yeah, I’m a bus conductor.’
‘No, you’re kidding me. You, a bus conductor? That’s a joke, isn’t it?’
‘No, my dad’s a bus driver. He got me a job when I left school, at the depot as a cleaner and odd job man, then I got to be a conductor. One day I’ll be a driver.’
George looked at him in amazement.
‘The best middleweight prospect from this part of London in years and he leaves it all to clip tickets? Go on, pull the other one.’
‘I don’t want to fight.’
‘Use your talent, Jimmy, don’t let it just go to waste. There’s always money looking for talent.’
‘How do you mean?’
George paused for a moment. He made another guess about Jimmy. He was still a good guesser.
‘Well, if you ever want a few quid, I could probably put you in the way of getting it.’
‘Not interested, George. I don’t know any Joe Greens or Jack Lonsdales and I don’t want to know any. I like the buses. I’ll stick with them.’
‘Just as you say.’
Over the next few weeks George and Jimmy began to get to know each other. Jimmy sometimes found himself drinking with people who accepted him because he was with George, but who made other strangers unwelcome. Jimmy liked George. George introduced him to music he had never known, black American stuff by people with daft names like Duke Ellington or Count Basie, and even to some classical music.
George was a never-ending source of interest, he didn’t fit into any of Jimmy’s limited set of categories. His schooling hadn’t been Catholic but in other respects it had not been so very different. George actually bought and read books and sang the praises of a writer called P. G. Wodehouse. He lent Jimmy one of his Wodehouse books and said if it didn’t make him laugh then he was dead already, but he just hadn’t noticed. Jimmy couldn’t understand the book never mind laugh, but he made out he had enjoyed it because George liked it. He visited George’s flat, where they talked and listened to records and he sometimes met George’s girlfriends. He began to feel he knew George, even though George never volunteered any information about himself and Jimmy never asked. George never asked to visit Jimmy’s home and Jimmy never invited him, but Jimmy had encountered a new and enjoyable experience. He had a friend.
FOUR
Paddington, February 1995
A gentle knock at the door of his small room in Bart’s woke Jimmy. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He had only been in bed one hour. Philomena’s voice came through the door.
‘Sorry, Jimmy, the police are here, I think they’ll want to talk to you.’
‘I’ll be ready in a minute.’
Jimmy lay on his back looking at the naked bulb suspended above his bed, trying to force himself awake.
Who will it be? he wondered.
Then he decided he didn’t care. Now they knew he was here, he didn’t care who came. He would deal with it if he could, and if he couldn’t … well, somehow it would be taken care of. He got up and took his washing and shaving things along the corridor to the staff bathroom.
In the dining room two detectives were talking to Janine. The older of the two had been there the previous night. He was the one who had recognised Jimmy. They both had cups of tea in front of them.
‘I didn’t see her leave. I was in the kitchen. I didn’t even say goodnight.’ Janine paused. She was finding it difficult to talk without crying.
‘In your own time, Miss.’
The older detective was a paunchy man, lived-in with a worn and shop-soiled look, but there was kindness in his voice. Janine sat twisting a damp handkerchief in her hands and looking across at the window which gave a view of the blank brick wall on the other side of the alley where Mrs Amhurst’s car had been parked.
‘You OK, Miss?’
Janine nodded but remained silent.
The other detective lit a cigarette and asked, ‘Can you see where the car was parked from …’
‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke.’
He ignored her remark. ‘There’s a kitchen window that looks out on to the alley. Could you see her car from it?’
The cigarette smoke drifted across the table towards Janine. She moved her chair to one side and then looked at her questioner. He was thirty-something and quite unlike her idea of a policeman, even a detective, but he wasn’t untidy or seedy like the other one. He looked like someone whose business was at the edge of honesty and morality. He wore light slacks and had an open-necked shirt. His jacket looked expensive but the colour was wrong, it was too close to yellow. He had short, curly hair and a handsome face. He looked the expensive end of what she had heard called ‘common’.
‘In your own time, Miss.’
The older detective was still being kind.
She looked down at her hands and suddenly it seemed to dawn on her what she was doing. She tucked the handkerchief into her cardigan pocket.
With a visible effort she tried to become calm and business-like.
‘I was in the kitchen, heating soup. The cooker is at the other side from the window. You can see the car
if you’re near the window but I didn’t see anything. Then I spilled a pan of soup and Sister came in to help me clean it up. Later, I saw the car was still in the alley so I asked Mr Costello to see if anything was wrong. When he came back he told us …’ She paused, tears again formed in her eyes. ‘I didn’t even say goodnight.’
‘You didn’t look out of the window at all?’
The detective seemed unconcerned about Janine’s obvious distress.
‘Not that I remember. I don’t usually. There’s nothing to see.’
The detective put his cigarette out by dipping it in his tea. He dropped the soggy remains into the saucer then leaned back in his chair and stared around the dining room. The kind detective picked up his cue.
‘Thank you, Miss,’ he smiled, putting his notebook and pen on the table. He stood up. The interview was over. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Could you ask the Sister to come in now please?’
Janine rose, her handkerchief back in her hands and at work again. She nodded and left.
‘What d’you think?’
The kindness had gone from his voice. The other detective shook his head.
‘Nothing there. Let’s see what the nun says.’
They sat in silence until Philomena came in. She walked to the table and the older detective stood up politely.
‘Sit down, Sister, please.’
Philomena sat down.
‘Do you remember Mrs Amhurst leaving last night?’
The tone conveyed that he didn’t like having to intrude, but the job had to be done. He hoped she would understand.
‘I don’t know. She usually came through the dining room to say goodnight to everyone. I can’t remember her doing it last night. I must have been in the office when she left.’
The other detective lit another cigarette and joined in the questioning.
‘Could you see Mrs Amhurst’s car from the cooker in the kitchen, if you were heating soup, say?’
‘Don’t smoke, please.’
