by Janet Pywell
‘Doctors, teachers, lawyers – pretty much everyone.’ He steps toward me and my body tenses. ‘It’s quicker to order drugs than a takeaway pizza. Hold out your hand!’ he orders.
I hold it out with my palm upward, trying not to shake, and Badger steps toward me. He drops a sugar cube into my hand, and I feel a surge of relief.
I sniff it. ‘Crack cocaine?’
‘Very good. It’s yours for free.’
‘No, thanks.’ I offer it back to him. ‘I don’t use it anymore.’
He takes it from me and puts it in his pocket and laughs. ‘You did use it?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘A while ago. I’m clean now.’
‘Respect!’ he says, and moves away. ‘But you’re stupid!’
‘Why?’
‘I made $300,000 last year.’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘You can imagine what my boss made.’
‘Who is your boss?’
He laughs. ‘Now, I’m not that stupid.’
‘So, how does it work?’
His voice takes on a sense of pride, and he boasts, ‘I train the kids. They’ve got to be young, maybe twelve or so. The younger, the better. They’re easy to manipulate and easily impressed, and they like carrying knives; they think they’re big when they carry a weapon.’ He picks up the thirty-centimetre blade from the bonnet of the car and tosses it between his hands. ‘You see, I’ve got to look after them. I train them to look out for themselves and each other. We’ve got to defend ourselves.’
‘From who?’
‘If you piss me off, step on my territory, you’ll get shanked in the neck.’
‘What if someone comes after you?’
‘They’ve tried, but they don’t come back a second time.’
‘Because they’re frightened?’ I ask, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
‘Because they’re dead.’
My mouth is dry. I can’t form any saliva in my mouth, but I can’t show I’m scared.
‘This is my life,’ he continues. ‘This is what we do. When you’ve watched a pregnant woman snorting coke, or a guy selling his arse for some weed, or an old man scratching about in the dirt to get his next fix, nothing bothers you. Sometimes, I kill them to put them out of their misery. Their world is shit anyway. I put my knife in their throat, or their heart, and I hear them cry out with relief when their body expires, gasping and sucking for air.’
It’s Adam who next speaks quietly in the darkness. I’d forgotten he was there.
‘Is that enough for your film, Mikky?’
I feel his hand nudging my shoulder for me to stand up, and I back away from Badger, who seems increasingly wired and erratic.
‘You’ve got to be on your guard,’ Badger says, spitting loudly. ‘Anyone can come for you at any time.’ He slashes the air with the blade. ‘I’ll cheff you, Mikky. I’ll cheff anyone who comes near me …’
I feel the blade in the air near my face and I duck backward.
‘Come on,’ Adam whispers, and he grabs my arm, pulling me quickly back toward the garage entrance. Behind us, the loud voice reverberates, punching off the corrugated iron as if it’s a prophecy or a legacy that he believes himself, that he’s genuinely invincible. ‘No one messes with BADGER!’
Chapter 10
“There are crimes that, like frost on flowers, in one single night destroy character and reputation.”
Henry Ward Beecher
Outside, I gasp in lungfuls of air. I’m wired, and my body is tense. We jog away from the lock-up, my shoulders hunched against the continuous rain and my hair soaking wet. I’m breathing heavily, and I’m shaking. We slow our pace, and I dig my hands into my pockets. I’m shivering.
‘Was that what you wanted?’ Adam asks.
His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, and his pale eyes look eerily translucent. ‘Can you use it in your documentary?’
‘Maybe.’
We walk in silence until we get back to the familiarity of Regent’s Canal and my breathing returns to normal.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask him.
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you afraid, Adam?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not in their gang.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m protected.’
‘Why?’
Adam doesn’t answer, and we walk in silence.
‘How are you protected, Adam?’ I insist.
He stops outside the tube station. ‘This is as far as I go,’ he says.
‘Why did you take me to meet Badger?’
‘It’s for your film.’
‘What about Ali? Why wasn’t he protected?’
‘Take the tube,’ Adam says. ‘Go home.’
‘Why won’t you speak to me?’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘I think you do.’
He shakes his head and won’t look at me.
‘Are you filming tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks away, disappearing into a flood of people carrying Christmas packages and heading home in the rush hour.
* * *
Peter is furious. He stomps around Josephine’s penthouse, his prosthetic foot clanking on the wooden floorboards.
‘What on earth possessed you to do such a stupid thing?’
‘It wasn’t stupid—’
‘Do you know how dangerous these people are?’
‘It was Adam who—’
‘I don’t care who it was, Mikky! You’re making waves in the community, and we’re not supposed to be doing that.’
‘I’m not making—’
‘You are! Matt told me that you’ve been speaking to the Parks about the dagger tattoo. All it will take is for one of them to report back to their boss, or gangland head honcho, or the Asian, and you’ll be dead!’
‘I won’t be dead—’
‘Mikky!’ Peter stops and stands in front of me. ‘You’re delusional. Joachin asked us to go to Morocco and investigate the dagger, that’s all. Punto! Nada mas!’ he emphasises in Spanish. ‘We have no jurisdiction over here.’
‘But what about you—’
‘I’m helping on the film set as we originally agreed. We were making a documentary about the Parks and how parkour has turned their lives around, and I’m trying to keep our cover authentic, and you were supposed to be researching the dagger, but now I find that you’re running off and you’ve disappeared with—’
‘I don’t want to be on set – I don’t like heights.’
‘That’s not the point, and you know it!’ Peter pulls out a dining chair and sits opposite me, our knees almost touching. He takes a deep breath and says in a quieter voice, ‘We are not here to bust this cult, or this drugs gang or whatever they are. That’s a matter for the Metropolitan Police, Mikky. All we have to do is to find out about the dagger, and we’ve done that.’
‘We haven’t found—’
‘But you’ve hoodwinked me, Mikky. You said you were determined to make this documentary, but then you go charging off, down some backstreet canals to a warehouse to meet some crackhead with a knife, who by all accounts sounds like he was off his head …’
I attempt to speak, but Peter holds up his hand.
‘I haven’t finished, Mikky. This is dangerous territory. It’s on the news every day; about the drugs, knife crime, kids disappearing into these houses where they’re forced to do all sorts of things, and teenagers winding up stabbed on the street. You have to stop.’
‘I trust Adam. He’s not in the cult.’
‘But he knows people who are.’
‘He’s protected,’ I insist.
‘Protected! There’s no such thing! And now one of the cult members knows about you. He told you how much he earned, for heaven’s sake!’
Peter hobbles over to the floor
to ceiling windows and stares across London’s skyline.
‘You must promise me that you’ll stay out of this, Mikky, or I will have to call Joachin,’ he adds.
I rub my head. I’m tired. ‘Okay.’
‘Promise?’
‘I didn’t hoodwink you,’ I growl.
‘We have to tell the police what we’ve found.’
‘Okay,’ I reply meekly.
‘Promise?’ Peter frowns at me, and then his mobile bings. He pulls it from his pocket and reads the message. ‘Oh no, I’ve got a feeling we’re too late.’
* * *
Joachin insists on Skyping us. Peter and I sit side by side, staring at Joachin’s face on the computer.
‘I’ve received a complaint from Chief Inspector Mulhoon.’ Joachin’s face is stern. He doesn’t smile and there’s no small talk or pleasantries. ‘Mulhoon told me that Matt’s unhappy. You’re speaking openly to the Parks about this cult, and a dagger tattoo, is that true?’
‘Matt’s complained?’ I ask. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It doesn’t matter who’s complained, Mikky. Is it true?’
‘Well, yes, I did mention it to them …’
‘Raymond Harris is also upset with you. He told the police that you went around to his house, without being invited, and started harassing his wife.’
‘That’s not true! She poured me a glass of wine. That’s not harassment, and besides, she was drunk!’
‘That’s not the point, Mikky; I gave you clear instructions. Our jurisdiction only goes as far as Europe. In Morocco, you were supposed to get the Parks to trust you and to open up with interviews to find out about the dagger from a cultural viewpoint, on the off-chance that it had been stolen or was being used to initiate a cult ceremony—’
‘And that’s what I’ve done—’
‘I told you not to get involved in police matters in the UK.’ Joachin frowns at me.
Although we haven’t always agreed, I’ve never seen him this angry before. I look at Peter for support, but he remains silent, and he won’t look at me.
‘What have you found out about this dagger?’ Joachin asks.
So, I tell him the truth. I explain how we have compared a picture of Monika’s tattoo, and one of Ali’s, and how we were able to compare them. I also tell him how I had a poor replica of a dagger made in Morocco. ‘Since then, through my diligent research, I’ve concluded that it’s very similar to an original once owned by Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor who built the Taj Mahal.’
Joachin listens in silence until I finish.
‘So, where is it?’ he asks.
‘The original was sold at auction for over $3.3 million.’
‘Who bought it?’
‘It’s listed as a private collector, but I’ve asked a few friends to investigate for me who the private collector could be; my friend Marian Thoss might be able to—’
‘Right, you must pass this information on to Chief Inspector Mulhoon first thing in the morning, and I want you as far away as possible from Islington and Dixon House. You must forget all this nonsense about making a documentary, and I want you to have no more contact with the Parks, is that clear?’
‘Well,’ Peter finally speaks up, ‘they are filming tomorrow, and I have been instrumental in helping them with the action scenes. Sandra Worthington has been very appreciative, and she expects me there tomorrow …’
‘Okay. Well, take Mikky with you. Stay together at all times. Once the filming is over, I want you out of there, away from London. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Yes, of course.’ Peter almost salutes, but instead, he rubs his hand on his trousers.
When the screen goes blank, and Joachin’s face disappears, I poke out my tongue. Peter catches me and says, ‘Childish, Mikky. You really are so childish.’
* * *
As much as I’m impressed by the Parks, filming for me is a slow and tedious process. Everything has to be precisely ‘in situ’ – the actors, stunt people, equipment, and cameras – so I quickly lose interest.
Peter turns around regularly to make sure I’m still standing behind the cement column, which is my refuge and my protection against the wind. I return his smile and poke out my tongue.
I promised I’d stay with him today, but the novelty of filming is wearing thin.
I try Marco’s mobile and realise he’s probably at sea, but he will dock in a few hours in Split, Croatia – where we met last year and fell in love. I stamp my feet, impatiently wishing I’d thought to wear two pairs of socks.
I watch and wait, as the light fades to mid-afternoon, and although spotlights are erected, it’s decided there isn’t enough light to continue filming.
‘We’ll finish it in the morning,’ Sandra cries out.
Peter rubs his hands together, and Matt nods at the Parks who wait to one side of the cameras, away from me.
There are murmurs of approval as the crew begins the process of packing up, and I wait, smothering a cold and tired yawn.
Matt joins us, smiling happily.
‘It went well, didn’t it?’ he says.
‘Brilliant.’ I can’t help my sarcasm, and he looks at me, not knowing what to say.
‘Are you alright, Mikky?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’
I can feel Peter’s heavy gaze on me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m pissed off with you.’
‘Me?’ Matt sounds surprised, which makes me angrier.
‘Yeah, you complained to Mulhoon about me.’
‘The chief inspector?’
‘Yes, the very one.’
‘I didn’t complain—’
‘He said you did and that I’d been asking the Parks too many questions. You must have phoned him and—’
‘I didn’t phone him. He came to Dixon House.’
‘Really? Why?’
Matt shrugs. ‘I guess it’s all to do with the election. He came with a couple of journalists yesterday after you’d gone.’
‘And you complained?’
‘Not exactly. I mentioned you were making the documentary and because Raymond Harris was with him, I thought maybe he could be interviewed—’
Peter interjects, ‘We were told that you and Raymond Harris complained that we were harassing the Parks and Raymond’s wife.’
Matt frowns. ‘Why would I do that? I made the phone call for you to meet Arlene Harris, remember?’
I take a deep breath. ‘True!’
Matt holds out his hand. ‘Truce?’
‘Yes.’ I take his hand.
‘You know I don’t want you to ask too many questions, but I promise, I didn’t complain.’
‘We believe you,’ says Peter. He slaps Matt on the shoulder. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t get up to the twenty-fifth floor – the wind is too strong – but tomorrow it’s supposed to be calmer.’
‘We’re going to start at first light.’ Matt rubs his hands; he’s wearing a thick hoodie and cap. ‘Come on, guys, who wants hot chocolate?’ he calls out, and when the Parks appear, he adds, ‘I’m buying!’
He winks at me, and they gather around him, and I’m conscious that Adam won’t look at me. He’s on his phone, and still sending messages as we all pile into the coffee shop and gather around the table.
Lisa is bubbly, and Joe is happily chatting to Peter, asking him about his experiences in the SAS. The two new boys aren’t interested in speaking much, so I listen and watch Adam, who won’t look up.
Matt returns with a tray of drinks and slides into the booth with us, sharing out the hot chocolate and coffee.
‘I’m ready for this,’ he says.
‘Will we get paid for tomorrow?’ asks one of the new boys.
‘Sure you will, Mo,’ Matt replies, blowing onto his hot chocolate. ‘You get paid very generously, and they’ll take it as a full day.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ Lisa lisps, ‘I’m going shopping next week.’
‘What will you buy?’ I ask.
‘Clothes for our holiday.’ She looks shyly at Joe but he just grins back at her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to Morocco. We looked on the Internet and we’ve got a great deal, next week, at a hotel with all our food and stuff …’
‘Near where we were in Ouarzazate?’
‘No,’ Joe replies. ‘It’s somewhere near the coast.’
‘Fantastic.’ I smile.
Adam looks at me and frowns. His hot chocolate remains untouched, and he’s gripping his phone tightly.
‘Okay?’ I ask quietly.
He doesn’t reply. He sends another message on his phone.
‘Monika didn’t come today,’ I say, throwing the comment out to them all.
Lisa shakes her head. ‘She was meeting someone.’
‘Oh? Like on a date?’ I smile.
‘No, it’s one of her brother’s friends …’
‘Stepbrother,’ corrects Joe.
‘Where were they going?’ Adam asks, looking up from his phone.
Lisa looks at Joe, but he shrugs. ‘Dunno.’
‘Why?’ I ask Adam. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I haven’t been able to get hold of her since last night.’
I glance at Peter, who toys with his coffee cup and doesn’t say a word.
‘She’s probably out with friends,’ Matt says cheerfully, tipping back his head and finishing his drink noisily.
Adam frowns and shakes his head.
I lean across the table and try and make eye contact with them all.
‘Did you know the young guy they found in the canal last night?’
I can feel the anger in Matt’s glare. He stands up quickly and gathers the cups together, keeping busy, brushing imaginary crumbs from the table.
‘No,’ Lisa says.
‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ adds Joe.
One of the new boys, the Indian, says to me, ‘Where are you from?’
The other new boy, Mo, says, ‘Don’t you get it, or are you stupid? You don’t ask questions, or you’ll be cleffed—’
‘Or shot in the face,’ adds Adam.
* * *
The call comes through to me just before midnight as I’m trying to sleep.
Marina Thoss, my friend and the daughter of Theo Brinkmann – the Belgian who trained me in forgery and selling on the black market – speaks quickly in English.
