The Street Angel

by Robert Gollagher

  “Oh, Bobby,” Carina said softly. “You are a strange man, sometimes.”

  Richards smiled, but he felt awful. He might have gotten her killed.

  “Drive me home then, Bobby?”

  Richards nodded philosophically. “Sure.”

  Chapter 4

  Bob Richards had been robbed before. It was just part of life and normally when it happened he just let it go. There was no point in calling the police – the civil police, that is. By the time you had finished bribing them you would be twice as poor as from the robbery itself, and they never caught the thief anyway. Without a bribe they wouldn’t even try. The only police you ever saw on the streets were military police, and as far as Richards was concerned the less contact you had with them, the better.

  It was best not to ask questions about the military police. Usually you saw them cruising the streets slowly in their grey-and-white vans, or walking their beat along the beach. Richards always thought it was odd, whenever he was relaxing at the crowded beach, watching a beach volleyball game or admiring the young beauties in their thong bikinis, to see a gun-toting soldier march seriously along the sand as if he were expecting an armed coup to arise at any moment, starting right there on the beach at Boa Viagem. But as incongruous as the beach soldiers were, they made Richards feel safe. There were too many armed robberies in Recife.

  Other times the military police made him feel anything but secure. Once or twice, when he was driving, he had looked a little too closely at military police cars that were overtaking him and seen four or five uniformed men with their faces covered by black ski masks and large sub-machine guns in their hands, speeding on their way to some anonymous mission. Death squads. You did not want to see stuff like this. What you wanted to do was keep your head down like a good citizen, get on with your life, and try not to think about it. And hope like hell you never met one of those guys up close.

  Anyway, he wouldn’t want to get the military police involved in investigating a robbery perpetrated by street kids. You never knew which politician or general might just give the order to quietly slaughter the children and be done with it. No one would even know they were gone. Richards had little sympathy for the street kids, they were thieving little bastards, but they certainly didn’t deserve to die. They were just children.

  It annoyed Richards intensely, however, that he had been robbed by a bunch of skinny children. A grown man should know better. It had made a fool of him in front of the lovely Carina, as well, and ruined a perfectly good evening. Maybe it was just transferred frustration at the pathetic state of his life in general, but Richards had been stewing over the robbery for a couple of days now. He just couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  He honked the horn of his little Ford Escort. Weren’t they ever going to open the damn gates? he thought. The sun was beating down mercilessly and he had already been sitting out here with the engine running for nearly five minutes. What kind of an orphanage was this? Was nobody home?

  At last, a teenage boy in shorts and a white T-shirt came wandering slowly up the dirt driveway and reached the gates. He started fidgeting clumsily with the chain and padlock until he had it undone, then he swung the big gates open, one at a time, until there was room for Richards to drive through. The boy seemed to do everything tediously slowly, which annoyed Richards even more. Nevertheless, Richards stuck his head out of the car and thanked the kid for letting him in.

  “You are welcome, Senhor,” the kid replied, but not looking directly at Richards. His head slanted in the wrong direction. His eyes were cloudy.

  Richards realised, to his horror, that the kid was blind. He had been sitting there, honking his horn impatiently, while this blind kid had come as fast as he could to let him in. “Thanks again, kid. Sorry about the horn.”

  “It is nothing, Senhor.”

  Richards drove slowly up the winding driveway, past ramshackle houses and towards the central building, a large, white, stone structure which looked almost like a converted church, without the spire. He parked the car and got out, wondering why he had bothered coming.

  By the doorway was a colour portrait of the Virgin Mary, covered by glass to protect it from the sudden tropical downpours which drenched Recife from time to time. Richards paused to look at the painting.

  A young woman came to the open door. “Good day.”

  “Good day, Senhorita,” said Richards, as he handed her a business card.

  “My name is Fabriola, Senhor ... Hichards. How can I help you today?” The woman spoke Portuguese with the accent of a well-educated university student. Richards imagined she must have donated her time.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Fabriola. Look, it’s nothing, really. I’m just looking for a particular boy.”

  “I see, Senhor. What is his name?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You see, I was robbed three days ago. There was a boy with a knife. He was about twelve. Blonde hair. He was wearing one of your orphanage T-shirts. I thought you might know who he is.”

  “Oh, no, Senhor! I am sorry to hear this.”

  “It’s all right. No one was hurt.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  Richards was never comfortable with religion. He was an atheist in a country full of believers, and it was sometimes a struggle to adapt. He tried his best. “Yes. Uh, right. Thanks be to God. But do you know this boy?”

  “Well, I am not sure, Senhor. There are forty-seven boys here.”

  “You understand, I am not here to make trouble. I don’t want to see the kid end up with the police. But you understand, Senhorita, you cannot have boys from the orphanage out on the street, with knives.”

  “Oh, of course, Senhor. Of course, you are right. And thank you for not calling the police. I thank you for that kindness. The children are having lunch. Why don’t you come and see? Is that all right?”

  “Sure.” Richards decided he would find the kid, frighten the hell out of him, and leave it at that. He just wanted to get it out of his system.

  Fabriola led him down a long, cool corridor until they reached an enormous hall. About sixty people were seated around long wooden tables, eating lunch. Most of them were young boys. The rest were the volunteers who ran the orphanage, most of them older women. The scene was remarkably quiet. Richards had never seen so many well-behaved kids in his life. It was a simple place, and it could have done with a fresh coat of paint, but it was clean and welcoming. Nevertheless, Richards felt uncomfortable. He had never had any children himself, and he didn’t like kids. All he wanted to do was get it over with and go home. The sooner it was over, the better.

  “We will walk around the tables, Senhor. You tell me if you see the boy.”

  Richards followed her around the room, but the blonde-haired boy was not there. “He’s not here. Are there any others?”

  “No, these are all the boys. I am sorry.”

  “Okay. You know, if this boy stays out on the street, he will end up getting himself killed. It’s an ugly world.”

  “I know you are right, Senhor. One moment, I will get Susinha to speak to you. She may know of this boy you seek. Why don’t you wait in the office?”

  “Thanks.” Richards made his way back to the little office they had passed on the way to the hall. He took a seat on a rickety wooden chair.

  After a couple of minutes, an attractive woman with light-brown hair and pale, delicate features appeared in the doorway to the office. She looked about forty-five, nearly his own age. Richards would later remember he felt immediately attracted to her, at least until she opened her mouth. She wore an expensive wristwatch, blue linen trousers, and an orphanage T-shirt. She walked into the office and, somewhat self-importantly, sat down behind the wobbly old desk. “Good day, Senhor,” she said in Portuguese.

  “Good day, Senhora.” Richards had seen her gold wedding ring.

  “With what can I for to help you, today, if possible?”

  “Oh what?” said Richards, bemused. Her Portuguese was terrib
le.

  “The lady tells me you are come to ask the questions, yes? Um ... she says you look for the boy of the street.” The woman looked exasperated.

  “I don’t understand,” said Richards, rather cruelly.

  “One moment,” said the woman. She pulled out a pocket dictionary and began flipping through it. “You are here to ... investigate a boy?”

  Richards spoke in English now. “I’m an American.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, embarrassed and relieved. “Oh, right. Well, that makes it easier then, doesn’t it?” She spoke in an absurdly posh English accent, which Richards disliked immediately. “Portuguese isn’t the easiest language in the world. All those irregular verbs.”

  Richards had a look on his face halfway between pain and a smile.

  “Look, um, sorry,” she said. “Can we start again?”

  “Sure.”

  The woman stood up and offered her hand. “Susan Harris-Smythe.”

  Richards thought even her name was ridiculous. “Bob Richards.”

  Susan sat down again. “Right, Mr Richards. I understand you’re looking for one of our boys, blonde-haired, about twelve years old?”

  “He robbed me at knifepoint. One of his buddies had a revolver.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Richards. That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d like to find him and talk him out of doing it again.”

  “What makes you think he was one of our boys?”

  “He was wearing one of your T-shirts.”

  “Ah. Look, I’m only a volunteer supervisor here. I’ve been over from London for six weeks. I’m on an ecumenical exchange program, from the Church of England. But the Sister is away at the moment, so I’m in charge.”

  “You’re a vicar?” For courtesy, Richards quickly added, “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, no. Me? No, I’m just on the Ecumenical Committee. The chance came up to help our friends in Brazil, so I volunteered. I’ve got a lot of experience working with children. I’m a teacher.”

  “Well, as long as you’re not teaching them Portuguese.”

  Susan laughed. “No, fortunately for them, I’m not.”

  “Look, Susan. May I call you Susan?”

  “If you like.”

  “Susan, this skinny little kid was out there in the middle of the night with a knife, a little tiny knife, holding people up. One of these days he’s going to hold up the wrong guy and get himself killed. Not to mention he ruined a perfectly good date and nearly got me shot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was with a gang of street kids. The leader had a revolver. I knew what to do, so I just handed over my wallet and walked away. But some dumb tourist or somebody is gonna panic, and they’ll shoot him. Then your kid’s going to be an accessory to murder.”

  “What would you like me to do, Mr Richards? Have him flogged?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We had a boy here who matches your description. His name is Junio. Apparently his mother was murdered two years ago, in Maceió. Then he was brought to Recife, to the orphanage, but he ran away. The Sister told me he took to hanging around with the street gang because he was bored. The people in the slum used to give him food. Eventually they got him to come back to the orphanage. But he ran away again a month ago. He was suffering from malnutrition at the time. He’s our only missing boy.”

  “I never said anything about wanting him punished.”

  “Then why are you here, Mr Richards? What did he take from you?”

  “A few cruzeiros. That’s not the point.”

  “Well, what do you want with him, then?”

  Richards wondered why she had suddenly become so damn defensive. “Look, I’ve been robbed ... at gunpoint. I might have been killed. I’m just ... annoyed. All I want to do is give the kid a piece of my mind and maybe, just maybe, he’ll think twice before he does it again. I could go to the police, you know, but I haven’t.”

  “Well, why haven’t you? Or do you want to administer your own justice, Mr Richards? Beat up a defenceless child? Would that solve anything?”

  “Hey, that’s enough! I don’t know why I came. Maybe it’s just because I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. I’m sure as hell not here to beat up any children. Lady, you’ve got a hell of a nerve!”

  Susan said nothing for a moment. “You’re right, Mr Richards. I’m sorry. It’s just ... read the newspapers. Everyone hates the street kids. Everyone blames everything on the street kids. Clean up the streets, they say. The little devils deserve everything they get, they say. I’ve seen enough abuse of children for one lifetime. I saw enough of it in London, and I don’t need to see more of it here. I thought you were one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “The abusers.”

  “Look, I’m not an abuser. I’m just an ordinary guy who got robbed by a bunch of armed kids and who counts his lucky stars he’s still alive. And I came here looking for, I don’t know, justice. I just came to see the kid get a slap on the wrist, get the shit scared out of him, and be told to write a hundred times, ‘I will not mug my fellow man,’ on the blackboard.”

  “And would that help you feel better, Mr Richards?”

  “Maybe. It sure as hell might help the kid, Ms Smythe.”

  “Harris-Smythe.”

  “Pardon me,” Richards said sarcastically.

  “We have no idea where Junio is. He might already be dead. I’ve just walked through the slum this morning, looking for him. No one has seen him. So if you really want to help him, Mr Richards, then pray for him.”

  “God and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “God listens to atheists and believers alike, Mr Richards.”

  Richards had had enough. “I’m sure he does. Let’s just forget it.”

  “Fine. Anyway ... I’m sorry you were robbed.”

  Richards stood up. “You be careful. Those street kids are no angels.”

  “They’re children, Mr Richards, closer to God than you or I.”

  Richards held up his palms in surrender. Without another word he stood up, walked out, got into his car, and drove away. He should have known better than to go seeking justice. There was no such thing.

  Chapter 5

  Susan picked up the old telephone by her bed and nervously dialled the number. It was hot in her small bedroom at the orphanage. All kinds of insects were chirping and clicking in the foliage outside her window. Her room seemed almost eerie, the weak yellow light of the grubby electric bulb bouncing off the bare stone walls. It was like being in a prison cell, except for the elegantly carved crucifix over her bed.

  There was no answer. Her heart beat quickly. Later, when she would think back to this moment again and again in her mind, she could only classify it as a moment of temporary insanity. What had come over her, she would never quite know. It was probably the telephone call from Adrian.

  Adrian Harris-Smythe, Tory MP and hero of the business community, wealthy landowner from the right kind of family, with his own country estate and a townhouse in Mayfair, was simply the perfect husband. Susan remembered all the praise her mother had lavished upon her for having found such an eligible bachelor and actually married him. Actually married him. They had been married for fifteen long years.

  Adrian was sixty-six years old, twenty-one years older than Susan. He tolerated her penchant for charity work, though why on earth she wanted to spend six months in Brazil, of all places, was completely beyond him. But he knew it was good publicity – a conservative politician’s wife working for the underprivileged orphans of the Third World. Made him seem less Thatcheresque, which was not easy. Adrian was so busy with his work that he would hardly miss her, but it still annoyed him that she had gone. Even when she was in London, she spent half the time volunteering for church work and the other half teaching English at an abominable little college for recent immigrants. He had let his frustration at this kind of irritating behaviour get the better of him, unfortunately, and had an argum
ent with her on the telephone. A long-distance argument, at one pound fifty a minute, over a scratchy satellite link from London to bloody Recife. “Why can’t you just come home?” he had complained. “I miss you.”

  Susan didn’t miss Adrian. Her life had grown slowly but surely more stale since she had married him. He was a boring old man, a man who loved her at best as if she were a favourite pair of slippers, and at worst as if she were a fashionable accessory to have on his arm at party political rallies, without which people might secretly ask if he were gay. In fact, Adrian wasn’t gay. He just wasn’t much interested in sex. Susan doubted he ever had a passionate thought. Sex with Adrian was like going to the dentist. It wasn’t actually uncomfortable, it didn’t last too long, it didn’t happen all that often, and it served some kind of necessary purpose known only to the dentist himself. Adrian actually used to say to her, “Thank you, my dear,” at the end of it, just to let her know he appreciated her providing him with his marital rights. She was beginning to hate him.

  They had never had any children, although Susan had always wanted a family. The thought of having children with this grey old man was unthinkable. Could she raise a son and have him turn out as lifeless and dour as Adrian? Could she face that kind of family? She could not. Everyone congratulated her on how happy she must be, how comfortable her life was, how lucky she was to have a marriage that had lasted fifteen years. Married to a millionaire. Married to Adrian Harris-Smythe.

  She had told him she had only just arrived in Brazil and she would come home when she was ready and not before. He had hung up on her.

  What had really brought her halfway around the world? she thought. Not just charity. She did plenty of that at home in England. She had come to Brazil to get away from her husband, to get away from the nightmare of the ‘perfect life’ which she lived with him, and to feel alive again. To feel alive.

  Come on, answer the phone! she thought anxiously. Come on, come on! She knew she had to do this tonight or she would never do it. What did people do in this situation? she wondered. How did they go about it? She had no idea. But Adrian was thousands of miles away, for the one and only time in fifteen long, miserable years, and she was angry. Answer the phone!