Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

  ‘Because if he’s got a current driving licence and the conviction is far enough back, it might be possible to get him a badge.’

  ‘What do you mean – a badge?’

  ‘A cabbie's badge. Where I drive, it's not like London. You don’t have to spend two years doing The Knowledge. If Neil was up for it, he could probably get a badge within a couple of weeks and be on the road earning. He could stay with me till he's fully back on his feet.’

  Peachy's face was beginning to light up.

  ‘I know the local taxi inspector pretty well and could vouch for Neil if there were any misgivings at the licensing office, especially with the jail thing. Plus, if he stayed with me, he'd have a proper address.’

  Peachy was thinking, he had a question, ‘What about a cab? They're expensive to buy. I'm strapped at the moment and I know you were moaning about your debts. I doubt if Phil has got a spare fifteen or twenty grand lying about the place.’

  ‘It's not a problem, Peach. I own mine, but you don't have to be an owner-driver. There are owners out there that have twenty or so cars. Neil could hire one of those. Everything he makes after his fuel and the weekly hire charge would be his.’

  He was nodding, and really getting into this. Of course, there was just one small stumbling block. ‘Right. Now we've got Neil's life mapped out for him, don't you think we ought to tell him?’

  ‘Yeah. So, what do you think is the best way to go about it?’ The ball was back in my court.

  ‘Well, I don't think anything should be done until I've talked to the inspector. If he says no, it'll be a big balls-up and back to square one. Say we manage to get hold of Neil and let him think he's got this great opportunity to turn his life round and then his hopes are dashed because I’ve cocked up the red-tape part of things, it could push him over the edge.’ Peach took my point but was still trying to put the whole picture together.

  ‘What about his folks, do you think they’re aware he's homeless?’ I could only offer him conjecture at this point.

  ‘I'm guessing not. You know he didn't get on too well with his old man. He was always putting Neil down as a failure. That's why Burnsie developed the in-your-face salesman persona. If he’s as proud as you say, I'm guessing he's managed to keep it from them. No doubt he rings them from time to time, but I'm betting they don't know where he is. They can't have a phone number for him, can they?’

  ‘You could be right there Will.’

  ‘Look, here's what I think we should do ...’

  ***

  We decided that I would first OK everything with the licensing office then get in contact with Neil's mum. I'd tell her to ask Neil to ring me because I needed his advice on something and that it was really important. I’d leave it vague in the hope Neil would return my call. Once I'd got him on the line I could do the job/house offer thing. If he hung up after that, at least he'd heard it and hopefully he’d want to get his life back on track.

  Best possible scenario was that he wouldn't hang up at all, listen to the proposal and go for it there and then. He didn't know I'd been up to London to meet Peachy and, as Peach was the one who'd seen him at the tube station, it’d be Peach that he’d be expecting to try and get in touch. So maybe he wouldn't assume we'd spoken and that I was now aware of his situation. If this failed, our contingency plan was to drive round the hostels and homeless shelters searching for him.

  By now we were both feeling better by miles. Peachy took dinner out of the oven and I cut up the French stick. My appetite had returned. His cooking was A1. I was more than impressed.

  We drank and ate well into the evening. I felt a little guilty, but we had made positive steps to end Neil's nightmare. With a bit of luck, in a few days Neil’s life would be heading towards normality and we could look forward to seeing the old Neil we knew so well. We debated whether I should leave the next day but decided there was nothing I could do till Monday, so I stayed.

  ***

  The coach trip back on Sunday evening was quiet. With only a handful of passengers on board, I had the luxury of three seats to myself, enough to spread out and sleep. I woke up about half an hour before my journey's end.

  The driver for Sunday had been John. Bouncing Barry had been wiped out just like Eric before him and, although I wasn’t sure if it was the same coach, the ride certainly seemed much smoother. I missed Alvin; perhaps he had taken an earlier service. If so, I hoped that Tasha had provided him with clean trousers.

  On arrival, Martin Sedgely was waiting for me at the coachstand.

  ‘Try and keep it under ninety, can you Mart? There's no rush.’

  The fact that there was no rush didn't seem to deter Martin from driving in his usual manner. He was an eccentric, with a very Bohemian lifestyle. I used to sit on the taxi rank during the day talking to Mart. He had a penchant for exotic cigarettes and maintained they were like apples.

  ‘Five a day keeps the doctor away!’

  I would often say to him, ‘Where are you visiting tonight Mart? Is it Morocco or Afghanistan?’

  Mart had a pathological hatred of the police. He'd had his pad turned over by them looking for his weed. He’d become very attached to the plants. Like a doting father talking to his kids, he’d tell them stories. He’d even given them names. Luckily for them (and for him), he’d had a tip off that the scuffers were coming and managed to find his ‘children’ a new home – just in the nick of time. But the stress the ganja had suffered due to the trauma of the move affected the crop, and what could have been an awesome smoke had turned out second rate. As far as Martin Sedgely was concerned, by having to re-home his loved ones elsewhere, he’d been denied the most basic of human rights – that of a parent to live amongst his family. The day the drug squad decided to drop in on Martin Sedgely was the day they made a lifelong enemy.

  Mart dropped me off at mum's, shaken and stirred. I was greeted by Pugs. What a friendly face! I did a cup of tea and chat, then headed home. Monday was going to be a day of organising things.

  Chapter 7

  Monday 7 a.m. South Wales

  I woke up early. I was a man on a mission.

  The licensing office opened at 8.30 a.m. and that would be my first port of call. If I didn't get a green light from Alan Osborne, the taxi licensing inspector, it would be contact Peachy and back to the drawing board. I decided to do a face to face (rather than over the phone).

  It was 8.40 a.m. when I went into the office. Alan was at his desk.

  ‘Can I buy you a cuppa?’ I said.

  ‘Why? What do you want?’

  ‘After all these years I can't buy you a cup of tea without there being an ulterior motive?’

  ‘I'd be very surprised if there isn't one.’

  I couldn't fool him, but he agreed to go for a brew. As licensing inspector, he didn't just cover taxis. He dealt with everything from fruit machines to fairground rides, clubs’ entertainment permits, door-personnel etc. The list went on and on. It wasn't unusual for him to get called out of the office, so eyebrows wouldn't be raised if he left his desk for half an hour. In fact he was on a pretty cushy number and as he was a natural-born slacker, the freedom to disappear while pretending to work suited him down to the ground.

  We went to a nearby cafe. I got them in and started my pitch. I left out the homeless bit because, as far as I was concerned, Neil was living with me. I explained prison and the drink-driving conviction and managed to convince him it was due to the marriage break-up and it was all ancient history. Neil hadn't re-offended since (at least I hoped he hadn't).

  Alan listened. At the end he just said, ‘Bring him to see me this Thursday. If everything's as you say we'll accept the application.’

  ‘Thanks Alan.’

  Result! I came away from the greasy spoon smiling. Back home I phoned Peach with the news. He was ecstatic.

  ‘All we've got to do is try and get Neil down here for Thursday.’

  With that in mind I told Peachy to get off the line so I could phone Neil'
s mum. It was now past 1 p.m. I’d been trying Neil's mum since just after ten when finally Neil's dad picked up – not the voice I wanted to hear. I asked to speak to Mrs Fairburn, knowing that if I gave the message to her it would definitely get to Neil. His old man might not bother if asked to do the same thing. Neil's mum came on the line. Peachy’s presumption was correct, they had indeed been away on holiday and had not long arrived back.

  I related everything Trev and I’d agreed upon, then said my goodbyes. It was now a case of wait and hope for the best ...

  A quick phone call to the archivist and off to work; I had to keep the wolves from the door. It was raining and that usually meant things were busier. But it also meant I’d get wet, in and out of the cab to put shopping in the boot. By late afternoon the rain had eased. I had a call dispatched to me.

  ‘Car 23?’

  I replied, ‘Car 23.’

  ‘Car 23, go to Tesco's for Mrs Smythe-White.’

  Mrs Smythe-White was a woman with attitude. When you arrived at the supermarket there was usually a group of people waiting for taxis. The standard operating procedure was to get out of the cab and call the surname of the person you were there to pick up. They would bring their trolley to the cab you’d help them load their shopping then depart. That's how it worked.

  Not if you were Mrs Smythe-White.

  Upon announcement of her name, Mrs Smythe-White would flick her thumb and forefinger then give the royal command, ‘Ovaar hyaar drivaar!’ She would then point to the trolley as she majestically strolled away from it and got into the back seat of the cab. At this point it was the servant/driver's responsibility to take the trolley to the cab, deal with the contents and return the trolley to the store while Lady S-W waited in the back of the carriage.

  A similar sequence of events took place on arrival at S-W Towers (a 1930s 3-bed semi). It wasn't in the worst part of town, but it certainly wasn't any great shakes either. Mrs S-W used to rile every single driver on the fleet, except the very anti-establishment Martin Sedgely.

  I once asked Mart how he could cope with her without getting the red mist. Mart said, ‘Because I get payback, man!’

  ‘Payback?’

  ‘Yeah, next time you pick her up and she does her ladyship-thing, while you're loading the boot, squeeze her loaf of bread, hot cross buns or whatever. When she has her tea and toast in the morning, she's gonna have a fuckin’ mighty thick slice to put in her toaster. Try it man; it works.’

  I did, and Mart, as usual, was right. Soon the whole fleet was getting payback. She must have thought the sliced bread in Tesco's had become pretty substandard. It didn't make any difference which brand she bought. It was all one big slice. I picked up Mrs Smythe-White, shopping et al and dropped her off at S-W Towers, had a little chuckle to myself and went home.

  Shortly after arriving I rang Phil and explained everything about Neil. He was shocked and upset in the same way both Trev and I had been. I kept our chat brief because, for all I knew, Neil might be trying to phone and I wouldn't want to miss his call.

  Apart from dog food, I didn't have much in. I made myself beans on toast. Had another little chuckle to myself wondering if Mrs S-W was having the same, but with thicker toast. Beans were a no-no for me during the day. They played havoc with my insides and I’d have to sit in the cab doubled-up, not wanting to offend my passengers. Night-time was different though. I was in the house on my own so who cared?

  The evening came and went. In bed by about 11.30, I hadn't heard from Neil. By the same time the following night there was still no communication.

  Wednesday 5.30 p.m.

  I made my working day short so I could be in the house in case Neil was trying to make contact. I’d been at home most of the day and had heard nothing. I went through my usual evening routine. At 8.47 p.m. I was just about to give Phil a call when the phone rang. It was Neil.

  ‘Will, mum said you needed to speak to me about something urgent.’

  I hadn't said urgent; I'd said important. But that didn't matter, he was on the line. I decided to just blurt it out. That way at least he'd heard it before he could hang up.

  ‘Neil, there's a job and a place for you to stay here for as long as you want.’

  Silence ...

  ‘Look Neil, I know you're probably ringing from a payphone. Give me the number before the money runs out so I can call you back.’

  Neil sheepishly read the number on the payphone to me. I dialled and Neil picked up immediately.

  ‘Peachy told you, didn't he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s worried about you. Just tell me where you are, I'll be there in less than 3 hours, we can be back here by about 2. There's plenty to eat and you can get a decent night’s sleep.’

  Silence … again.

  ‘Neil.’

  ‘I’m outside Mile End tube station.’

  ‘Right. Get your stuff together. I’m on my way. Look out for a red taxi, hackney number 487 on the doors. I’ll be there anytime after 11.’

  I hung up before Neil could answer back, not wanting a debate about it. I let the dog out for a pee. I’d probably be gone 6 hours or so. Dog back in the house, I left. No need to fuel up, I’d already made sure the cab had a full tank.

  With my foot virtually to the floor, anybody seeing me go past must have thought Martin Sedgely was at the wheel. I was very lucky not to be pulled by the fuzz. For most of the journey up the M4, I was motoring at just under a ton, had to slow down a bit on the Severn Bridge but apart from that my speed didn’t drop until I was near the outskirts of London.

  North and south London were strangers to me. But I’d had friends on the Isle of Dogs, an uncle that used to live on the edge of Brick Lane and a grandmother who had lived in Romford, so travelling through London on an east-west axis wasn’t anything new.

  At around 11.30 p.m. I pulled up at Mile End tube station. My heart sank; no sign of Neil. I switched on the hazards, jumped out of the cab and locked it. Entering the station, still no sign. There were no benches to sit on; probably none until you got down to the platforms, but you‘d have to buy a ticket to get anywhere near those. Ticket machines and a few people milling about were all that met the eye. Most of them the worse for wear; Neil wasn’t here. I felt very low and started to enter panic mode. What should I do? Phone Peach? Go down to the platforms? Should I go back to the cab and drive around the East End looking for Neil?

  I walked back out of the station back to the cab and unlocked my door, disconsolate. I thought I heard Neil’s voice. I turned round. Neil was crossing the road towards me, carrying a black refuse sack. He looked awful, his trousers were filthy and the sweatshirt he was wearing, torn. He had a swollen eye; blood was trickling from his fringe down his forehead and he was limping.

  ‘Neil, what's happened?’

  ‘Three arseholes came out of the station and just started punching and kicking me.’

  ‘Are you hurt bad?’

  ‘No; I’m a bit sore, but it looks worse than it is.’

  ‘Do you want to go to hospital?’

  ‘No.’ I thought this unwise, but not wanting to upset him, I didn’t push it.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving. I could eat a scabby monkey!’

  ‘Right, as soon as we see somewhere, we'll stop and get you something.’

  I grabbed the first aid kit out of the boot, and handed it to Neil.

  ‘There should be some plasters in there; wet wipes are in the glove box.’

  We pulled away and hadn't gone a quarter of a mile when we came across a hotdog van. I stopped the car.

  ‘Stay here, I won’t be long.’

  I jumped out, walked over to the van and ordered a jumbo hot dog, fries, a can of Coke for Neil and a small hot dog for me. Very quickly, we were back on our way again. I stayed silent while Neil ate. He'd scoffed the food in no time.

  ‘Was that OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, lovely, it hit the spot.’

  I hadn't been able to eat mine,
being too busy steering and changing gear. ‘Do you want this one?’ I held my hot dog towards him.

  ‘Why? Don't you want it?’

  ‘No, I don't even know why I bought it really.’ It was a lie. I was hungry, but I could sense Neil was ravenous.

  ‘Cheers Will.’

  We'd had a good run on traffic lights and it wasn't long before we were on the M4 heading west. I decided not to drive like a man possessed for the return journey. Now I'd found Neil I could ease up a bit. Besides I didn't want to lose my licence. That reminded me. ‘Neil, I know now's not a very good time, but you have got a valid driving licence haven't you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you got it with you?’

  ‘No, it’s at mum’s, with a bunch of other papers. When I came out and got it back I was staying with my folks, then I moved to London and didn’t need it, I haven’t bothered with driving for years.’

  ‘Could you get hold of it by tomorrow?’

  ‘Will, I don't want to see my parents looking like this.’

  ‘You won't look like that; we'll get you cleaned up.’

  ‘The bruising I mean.’

  He was right. It wasn't going to look too good when he met Alan either. ‘Why don’t you just ask your mum to dig it out, and tell her I'll pick it up.’

  ‘She'll wonder why it’s not me picking it up.’

  ‘Don't worry about it. Tell her I'm moving some furniture from London to Wales and you're going to help me with the van driving, so I need your licence to put you on the van-hire insurance. She doesn't need to know where you’re ringing from. You can wing it, Neil. You've got the gift of the gab.’

  Neil smiled. ‘So what do you really need my licence for?’

  ‘Mr Fairburn, you're about to become a cabbie!’ Neil thought for a moment and then had another little smile to himself. I'd been so caught up in events over the last hour or so, I hadn't noticed Neil was humming. He wasn't in Steven Morris's league, but then he didn’t smell of roses either.