by Liza Cody
It was only a few wallets that had sort of fallen into my hands last night, but I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. I’m not a thief. Not really. It’s just that sometimes I can’t bear to pass up an opportunity, and people are so careless. You’ll never believe how careless some people are. They leave their jackets hanging on the backs of their chairs with the wallet sticking out of a pocket. They leave their handbags on the floor where they can’t keep an eye on them. They’re mad. If you’ve got it and you want to keep it, for Christ’s sake protect it. If you don’t protect it, you’re just telling people like me you don’t want it. And if you don’t want it, I’ll take it. It’s as simple as that.
If you want some of mine, you’ll have to kill me to get it. That’s simple too.
Sorting out the winnings was easy enough. I was only interested in the cash. Plastic just pisses me off. I know there’s a market for it – that and driving licences – but I can’t be bothered. It’s enough bother getting rid of all the excess so it can’t be traced back to me.
The cash went straight into my pocket. That left a little pile of wallets. Normally these would never have reached the Static. They’d have gone into a bin on the way home. But normally I don’t rescue Goldies – it upsets my routine.
I was thinking about it when someone knocked on the door and made me half jump out of my skin. Nobody knocks on my door.
There were cushions all over the floor from where I’d slept and my first thought was to kick the wallets under there. But that reminded me of Ma and made me feel a bit sick. So I stuffed them in the back of the paraffin heater.
The knocking came again.
I should’ve sneaked a gander through the curtains but the knocking made me a bit narked and I did the wrong thing. I wrenched the door open and yelled, ‘What?’
I shouldn’t have opened the door at all because I found myself face to face with the lady copper from last night.
‘Afternoon,’ she said, and smiled – which really put me on my guard. If you want to survive in this life never trust the polizei when it smiles.
‘Eva?’ she said. ‘Eva Wylie?’
‘Wrong number,’ I said, and slammed the door.
She knocked again. I ignored her.
I squinted through the curtains. She was standing a little way off just waiting. She looked relaxed and cheerful.
Keep it up a little longer, I thought, and I’ll wipe that smile off for you. I’m a very patient person, but I was getting a mood on.
I daubed some margarine on a few slices of bread, and opened the jam pot. I hadn’t had any breakfast and my blood sugar was probably low. That makes me moody too. Harsh says that an athlete should keep her blood sugar at a constant level, and I do try. But when you live on your own, you sometimes forget.
The lady copper knocked again. I ate three bits of bread and jam. I could wait her out, I thought, she wouldn’t hang around all day.
Next time I looked through the curtains she was talking to a couple of yard men. They were having a laugh. That made me feel very narked.
I pulled the door open and stood on the step with my arms folded.
‘Yeah?’ I said, very cool. It would’ve looked better if I’d put the last slice of bread and jam down, but you can’t remember everything in a crisis.
‘Sorry to interrupt your tea,’ she said, coming over.
‘What’s the time?’ I said.
She looked a bit surprised but she said, ‘Twenty past four.’
That brought me up short. I’d overslept. I thought it was only two-ish.
‘I’m looking for Eleanor Crombie,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Eleanor Crombie. You left that club with her last night.’
‘Oh,’ I said. So that was Goldie’s real name. It figured. She looked like an Eleanor.
‘Well?’ the lady copper said.
‘Well, what?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who wants to know?’ I was going to put my fists on my hips and look threatening but the bread and jam got in the way. I decided to eat it.
‘Me. I want to know,’ the lady copper said.
‘Tough tiddles,’ I said with my mouth full.
She flicked the crumbs off her shirt and began to look a bit impatient.
I was so pleased about the crumbs, even though it was an accident, that I decided to let up.
‘I don’t know where she went,’ I said. ‘I got her out of that mess, but that’s as far as it went.’
‘I thought she passed out.’
‘All she needed was a breath of fresh air.’
‘You didn’t give her a lift anywhere?’
‘No wheels,’ I said virtuously.
‘Did anyone pick her up?’
‘Dunno.’ I was getting fed up. I took another mouthful of bread, and she took another pace backwards. It’s really nice when you make the polizei walk backwards.
‘Do you go there regularly?’ she asked.
‘Where?’
‘That club.’
They think they have the right to ask you anything, the polizei. They ask, you answer. If you want to know anything, go to the library.
‘See that sign,’ I said, pointing to the perimeter fence. ‘That there sign says Armour Protection. That’s me. I’m Armour Protection. There’s been bugger all thieving off this yard in the last six months. And you want to know for why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m up all night taking care of business. I don’t go clubbing regular. Got it?’
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘No need to loose your rag.’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ I went back into the Static and slammed the door.
This time she went away. I watched through the curtain. She had a very straight back. She’d probably look a treat in uniform, I thought. A back like that was wasted on plain clothes.
I was feeling pretty cheerful. It isn’t often the polizei let you get the last word in. Maybe the lady copper was new at the job.
But cheerful or not I had to get rid of the wallets. I nearly got caught in possession and it gave me quite a fright. So I stuck them into last night’s empty stew cans and a couple of baked bean tins, collected all the rest of the rubbish and tied up the plastic bin bag. Then I took it all to the skip. It wasn’t perfect, but it had to do.
The men in the yard watched me with more interest than usual. They were probably wondering what the polizei wanted. But as usual nobody spoke to me. It was a good thing none of them knew about Goldie or they would have told the lady copper.
As it was, I could imagine what they would have said to her. ‘Nah,’ they would’ve said, ‘Eva lives on her own. No one goes to visit her.’ That’s what they would have said, because until last night that was the truth.
It is not a good thing to be talked about. In fact it’s a bad thing. Someone from Bermuda Smith’s club had talked about me and the result was a lady copper on my doorstep. It was funny for two reasons. The first is that not many folk from Bermuda Smith’s talk to the polizei. Second – not many folk anywhere know my address.
It was not a lot of comfort to know that the polizei were looking for Goldie not me, because they had found me, not Goldie.
I thought back. All my old probation orders had run out, I was sure, and I didn’t think there was anything outstanding they could nick me for. I’d lived a very righteous life for the past six months since I got a job and settled down. But you never know. Once you’ve got a bad reputation you are never quite in the clear.
I decided to be extra careful about knocking off wallets and borrowing motors. And I checked all my survival kit just to make sure I could move out at a moment’s notice.
That reminded me to check on Goldie. She was still sleeping which was a good thing because while she was asleep she couldn’t ask for anything and I could calm down and do my exercises. All the same I wondered what she was wanted for. Lying there in my old sleeping bag she looked as if
butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
She was a responsibility. She made me feel tied down. I did forty press-ups to relieve the tension. I wished I could do them on my knuckles like Harsh can but my hands aren’t strong enough. After that I did squat-thrusts, and then bridges for my back. The worst bit was the sit-ups. I don’t know why, but I find it really difficult to develop a good set of abdominal muscles. My shoulders, back and legs aren’t bad, even though I do say it myself. But I sometimes despair of my abs. They just don’t look right. Perhaps it’s fluid retention. Perhaps I eat too much.
I looked at my London Lassassin poster. The abs didn’t look too awful in that. It was just as well. You can’t be heavyweight champion with a flabby gut. Well, you can, actually. You should see some of the men. But men and women are judged by different standards when it comes to looks. Don’t ask me why, but it’s so.
Chapter 10
Goldie woke up at ten o’clock. She had slept fourteen straight hours barely moving a muscle. She was a mess – pale and shaky, that golden mop brown with sweat.
I made some tea and opened a tin of tomato soup. She wanted a shower and I tried to explain about the water-heater being electric but she didn’t take it in.
‘Can’t you just turn the electricity on?’ she asked.
I explained about Mr Gambon and the meter, but she just looked bewildered.
‘Where am I?’ she asked.
I told her. She looked bewildered and miserable.
‘Why am I here?’ she asked. She couldn’t remember one single solitary thing about last night.
I told her about the raid, the tear gas and the lady copper.
She looked bewildered, miserable and frightened.
‘Where’s my handbag?’ she asked.
I told her she left it at Bermuda Smith’s club.
‘Oh shit, shit, shit,’ she said and looked as if, on top of everything else, she was going to cry.
‘What’s in it?’ I asked.
She didn’t answer. She just flopped back in the bed and stared at the ceiling, a picture of despair.
‘What are the polizei after you for?’ I asked.
‘Oh Lord, I don’t know,’ she said to the ceiling.
‘Come on!’ I said. I was beginning to feel a bit miserable myself. I thought I’d done her a favour but she wasn’t happy about anything.
‘Don’t shout at me,’ she said. ‘I feel awful.’
‘Drink your tea,’ I said and got up to go out. ‘There’s a bus stop at the bottom of the road. When you’re ready I’ll take you there.’
‘Are you throwing me out?’ she asked in a very small voice.
‘Ain’t you got a home to go to?’ I asked, a bit sarcastic. ‘My drum obviously ain’t good enough for you.’ I spoke rough just to show her I wasn’t good enough for her either.
She stared at me.
‘I got to protect myself,’ I explained. ‘I don’t want the polizei glomming round here. And that’s what you done. You brought them right to my doorstep and you don’t have the decency to tell me for why.’
She burst into tears.
‘Oh dry up,’ I shouted.
I hate it when women cry. I never cry myself. I threw her a towel to blow her nose on and went out to make some more tea. Really, I wanted a beer, but someone who’s having trouble with her abdominal muscles should lay off the beer. Beer and abs are deadly enemies.
The kettle was already steaming away. I’d put it on to heat water for Goldie to have a wash and then forgotten about it.
‘Fuck it,’ I said, and got a can of Hofmeister out of the cupboard. I opened it and plonked myself down on the sofa.
She came in a moment later. She was wrapped in a blanket and looked like one of those Help An Orphan posters.
She said, ‘I’m sorry, Eva, really I am. I didn’t know.’
‘About what?’
‘About the police.’
I said nothing, and she sat down beside me.
After a minute she said, ‘I owe some money. I’ve got debts.’
‘The polizei aren’t interested in your debts.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘but when you get into debt you get into other trouble too.’
That’s the truth. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I don’t want to get you involved,’ she said. ‘All you did was help a stranger.’
That was the truth too. I was beginning to like her again.
‘The real problem is that I lost my bag at the club,’ she went on. ‘The police will have found it.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, so they’ll know who I am, where I live and what I was carrying.’
‘What were you carrying?’
She sort of swayed. She was pale as milk.
She said, ‘You don’t want to know that, Eva. Look, if I could just use your phone, I could ask someone to pick me up. I can’t go home, but I have friends who might help.’
‘No phone.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t have a phone,’ I said.
She stared at me, open mouthed. Nothing had amazed her more than the fact that I didn’t have a telephone.
‘There’s one near the post office on Kipling Street,’ I said helpfully.
‘I don’t believe this,’ she said. ‘You can’t really live by torchlight, with no hot water and no phone. No one lives like that.’
‘Well, I do,’ I said. ‘You’re the one in debt. You’re the one can’t pay her bills. You figure it out.’ I was quite proud of myself really. She was so astounded.
‘Why don’t you eat your soup and have a wash?’ I was feeling pretty kind by now. ‘Then we’ll work out what to do.’
She looked almost guilty.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Go on. What’s wrong?’
‘I hate tomato soup,’ she muttered, looking at the floor. ‘And your soap … well, it’s the kind which irritates my skin. And the loo paper is hard.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I knew I’d hurt your feelings,’ she said, looking mournful.
‘I don’t have feelings about “loo paper”,’ I said.
‘Honestly, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that I have this awful skin.’
Her skin looked like cream. But I supposed that was what made it different from mine.
‘Make a list,’ I said. ‘I’ll get what you need at Hanif’s. He’s open all night.’
‘I’ve no money,’ she told me, as if I didn’t know. It made me feel good. She looked like a film star and talked poncy, but I had the dosh. I had the power to say yes or no.
She made a list, and I warned her not to go out because of the dogs.
Walking up the road though, I realised she hadn’t told me diddly-eye-die about anything I wanted to know. I thought she did because she had this soft confiding manner. But she didn’t. I would have to be a bit tough with her when I got back.
The light at Hanif’s was dim and brown. Hanif does not like to spend money on electricity any more than I do, but he must. You never see his wife – she lurks somewhere in the storeroom – but you hear her. Their little boy follows customers round the aisles, his big eyes peeled for anyone boosting the odd packet of biscuits. He is almost as good a watchdog as Ramses.
I was embarrassed. Soft bog rolls, clear soap and cream of asparagus soup were not what Hanif expected to see in my basket. I threw in a few batteries so he wouldn’t think I’d gone bonkers. He never says much to me anyway. The first time I went in there he called me ‘sir’, and he has never quite recovered.
It started to rain while I was in Hanif’s and the little boy only followed me as far as the door. Sometimes he follows me fifty yards down the street before his father calls him back. I don’t know why.
I walked quickly. After a long dry spell the rubbish on the pavement was turning mushy and the rain gave the road a ripe smell like a meat pie on the turn.
At the corner where the ya
rd fence began I saw a motorbike propped in the gutter. It was a Kawasaki, a big one. I went across to look. It was wet, but the saddle was nearly dry. The rider had only just dismounted, but there was no one in the street.
I let myself into the yard. To my surprise the dogs did not come to greet me. But as I got closer to the Static I heard them – Ramses’ bass wo-wo-wo, and Lineker’s rap-rap-rap. I dropped the shopping on the Static steps, grabbed the torch and a crowbar and ran to the far side fence to join them.
I was just in time to see a feller in motorcycle gear pull away from the wire and run down the street. The dogs hared off after him. I followed the dogs. We were all running parallel – him on his side of the fence, us on ours. I made as much noise as they did, yelling, ‘Oi, ball-bonce,’ and banging on the fence with the crowbar. Silent and deadly is not my way at all. I always make a big production, and it seems to work.
Because of the dark and piles of car parts I was slower than the man and the dogs so I didn’t get too close. But I heard the Kawasaki start up – varoom – and I saw its tail-light disappear round the corner.
The dogs were excited. They crowded me against the fence, jumping up and snatching at my jacket. I shouted them down. But when they were calmer I made a fuss of them. They had done their job.
We went back to the place where the bother had begun. The fence was in perfect nick, but the man had dropped a set of wire-cutters on the pavement outside. I brought them in. I was pleased with myself. Chalk up one more success to Armour Protection.
There was music coming from the Static. I had forgotten about Goldie, but I picked up the shopping and went in.
‘Haven’t you got anything but Metalica and Bonnie Raitt?’ she said. ‘What was all the noise about?’
She was playing Real Man and she’d nicked one of my black Guns N’ Roses sweatshirts. It came nearly down to her knees and looked nice.
‘Intruder,’ I said and started to unpack the shopping on the counter. ‘We saw him off.’
I found myself wanting to tell her about it but she took the soap and shampoo and shimmied away to the bathroom.
When she was all clean and shiny she came back and made asparagus soup, and it was really nice sitting there by torchlight, just the two of us. I fixed a new gas cylinder to the fire so that she could dry her hair. She did not seem inclined to talk, so I had to prod her.
