by Timlin, Mark
It was a statement, not a question.
‘Aren't we all chief,’ I replied.
‘You're looking for a particular girl.’
A statement again.
‘Could be. Who's speaking?’
‘No names, my friend. You're looking for Patsy Bright.’
I was suddenly very interested.
‘Could be,’ I repeated. ‘What's it to you?’
He chuckled. ‘I've got some information for you.’
‘What?’
‘It'll cost you man. Cash.’
‘How much?’ I asked, suddenly wary.
‘Fifty quid,’ he replied.
‘For what?’
‘I'll take you to her.’
‘When?’
‘Right now, if you like.’
I liked.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Meet me and I'll show you,’ he said.
‘Where?’
This monosyllabic conversation was beginning to get me down.
‘You got some wheels?’
‘Of course I have. Now where?’
‘Park outside Brixton Town Hall, opposite the church.’
‘OK, but don't jerk me around. I'm not in the mood.’
‘It's cool man, don't worry,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't wind you up. What do you drive?’
I described my car and told him I'd be about half an hour as I had to collect it from my house. He agreed to wait. We both hung up and I pulled out all my cash money. I had exactly sixty notes on me. I counted out fifty quid which I put in my shirt pocket. The rest I filed in my address book under ‘C’ for cash, which I then locked in one of my drawers.
I walked back to the house and rescued the Jag which I drove slowly into Brixton, still nursing the recurring hangover, which the bottle of beer had done little to alleviate.
I stopped the car by the Town Hall as instructed and waited with the engine running. A tall black guy in a faded T-shirt, jeans and eighty quid trainers pushed himself away from the wall on which he was leaning and ambled over to the car.
He was built like a heavyweight boxer. He had the kind of body that seemed as if it had more muscles than the skin could cope with. They writhed around under the thin cotton material of his clothes as if looking for a way to escape from his frame. He probably worked out for hours with weights everyday. I can never take that kind of shit seriously. Every time I've been to the gym, all that straining and serious building of the body beautiful only drives me to find the local pub. That's why I'll always be skinny and make people boogie to the nearest loose sand when I hit the beach.
I leaned over and slipped the lock on the passenger door. He opened it and folded his long body into the seat next to mine.
‘Hi, man,’ he said, looking around the interior of the car. ‘Nice ride you've got here. You must be loaded.’
‘You'd be surprised,’ I answered.
‘Have you got some wedge for me?’
‘COD, son,’ I said. ‘And how do you know I'm looking for the girl?’
‘Word gets round, man. Old face in town checking around makes waves.’
He rippled his fingers and grinned.
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘Not far, man. You drive. I'll show you.’
I indicated and pulled the car into the traffic flow. I drove down through the traffic lights by the Town Hall.
‘Not too fast,’ he said. ‘You've got to turn left by the record shop.’
I did as I was told and we drove into the back streets.
‘Now hang a right here and stop by the telephone box.’
I knew the area well. I used to walk the beat on these self same streets. They were packed claustrophobically tight with terraces of houses. Mostly in bad states of repair. Here and there some bright young couple would try and gentrify a corner of old Brixton. You could always tell. Sold signs appeared and skips were dumped in the streets outside. It was a bit like trying to tame a mad dog.
Generally though, the houses were split into flats and multi-occupied. If they were left empty for any length of time, squatters moved in and and out like squirrels.
‘Give me my cash,’ demanded the heavyweight.
‘Leave it out, pal,’ I said.
He hadn't volunteered his name and I hadn't asked for one.
‘I want to see the girl and then you get your fifty.’
‘She's in there.’
He pointed through the windscreen to the most disreputable looking house on the block.
I turned off the engine and got out of the car. The street was quiet, just the distant rumble of traffic from the main road and from somewhere the bass beat of a reggae record rumbled across the silence.
A chilly wind blew between the houses and filled my eyes with dust. It smelled tired and acrid. I brushed my eyelids with the back of my hand to clear my vision.
‘The door's open, man. Just go in,’ said the heavyweight leaning on top of my car.
‘After you.’
‘Sure,’ he shrugged.
We walked together across the pavement into the tiny garbage strewn garden of the terraced house.
The front door was closed, but when he pushed it, it swung open. There were three bell pushes by the door, but only one sported a name plate. It was written on a card tucked in to the top bell. In faded ink it read SMITH. That was about par for the course around here when the bailiffs came knocking.
I followed the black man into the hall which was dark and smelled of damp, old cooking and just faintly of urine. I've never liked that smell. It reminded me too much of my time in the force, going round to houses like this after burglars had been in and ripped apart someone's pathetic belongings. Or with a warrant to pull some hopeless villain. I'd managed to forget most of that time and didn't want to remember it now. I suddenly wished I wasn't there. That George Bright hadn't come looking for me. I knew instinctively that the house contained secrets I didn't want to know, things I didn't want to see and people I didn't want to meet.
Only the thought of the look in the eyes of the girl in the photograph kept me there.
I'll admit I was scared.
Suddenly I longed to be back in hospital. Safe and warm and cared for by nurses in their crisp uniforms.
I remembered one in particular, a pretty redhead who hardly spoke to me whilst I was there. When I was discharged, she brought me a book as a leaving present. It was a collection of Elmore Leonard short stories. She knew that he was my favourite author. She kissed me briefly on the lips, then turned and fled back into the hospital corridors. When I plucked up courage to ‘phone her, three weeks later, she'd left and gone to work in Australia of all places.
So much for my effect on the opposite sex. ‘Are you coming or not?’
The heavyweight interrupted my reverie. He was standing on the staircase looking down at me. ‘I'm coming,’ I said.
The floorboards in the house were bare. Our footsteps echoed as I followed him up the stairs. I peered through the gloom. The front door had swung shut behind us, and no-one appeared at any of the doors as we went past.
The house felt cold and abandoned. At the top of the stairs, three short storeys up was a door painted purple with anarchy signs spray painted on it in black. The paint was chipped and scuffed. The door handle was grimy white plastic.
The heavyweight banged at the door with the side of his fist so hard that it rattled on its hinges.
‘Anyone at home?’ he shouted, then turned the handle and threw the door open.
I was right behind him on the narrow landing as he did so. He turned suddenly and caught me by the upper arm. Half pulling and half pushing, he propelled me past him and into the room.
The first thing I noticed was a terrible smell, much stronger than that of the house itself. I stopped just inside the door. The heavyweight was now behind me and pushed me further into the room with a powerful shove. Then he slammed the door behind him.
The room was bright after the da
rkness of the stairway and it took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw two other men and a girl in the room. Two live men and one very dead girl.
Both men were white. One was bigger even than the heavyweight. But on him the muscle had turned to fat. He was bald on top but he had swept what hair he did have over his scalp. He had grown long sideburns to compensate. He wore a plain white shirt and black flared trousers. I liked him for his cheek. Lionel Blairs indeed!
His big belly strained the buttons of his shirt and bulged over the waist band of his trousers. He was sitting on the ledge of an open window as far away from the dead body as possible. He was holding a handkerchief over his nose.
The other man was smaller, blonde, wearing a baggy grey suit with a black shirt and narrow white leather tie. He was holding a sawn-off shotgun in his hand. It was pointed at me. It was short and stubby, double-barrelled with black insulating tape stuck round the barrels for a firm hold. The stock had been cut down into a pistol grip. All in all it was a very impressive weapon.
Deadly at short range in an enclosed space such as the room we were in, but at long range about as effective as spit-balls.
‘How sweet!’ I said to the blonde. ‘Only one little gun between the three of you, and today's your day to hold it. Do tell boys. Whose turn is it to have the flicknife?’
I must confess that levity was probably not wise under the circumstances, with the shotgun pointed at my belt buckle. But I've always tended to run off at the mouth when danger looms. I think it must be some kind of nervous reaction.
Blondie gestured with the gun. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled.
I shut my mouth and looked around the ratty room. The terrible fetid odour came from the body of a young girl sitting stiffly in an old armchair by the back wall of the room. She was wearing a dirty white dress, like a shroud. By contrast, her skin had turned dark in death. A shock of dull blonde hair covered her head. Even with her face contorted in the rictus of death, I knew she wasn't Patsy Bright.
‘We're glad you're so prompt,’ said the blonde. ‘It was getting a bit close in here.’
I looked over at Flared Trousers.
‘Let's get this over with,’ he said through the handkerchief, ‘and get the fuck out of here.’
‘You've wanted a junkie,’ the blonde said. ‘Well here's one. We hope you'll be very happy together.’
‘I'm looking for someone,’ I said. ‘But I don't want to get involved in a bring and buy sale. This isn't Patsy Bright and you know it.’
‘Don't move, or I'll shoot,’ said the blonde.
I looked behind me at the heavyweight who grinned at me, but not too convincingly. Down below in the house I heard a door slam and footsteps start slowly up the stairs.
‘You'll hit your mate if you do,’ I said.
The blonde moved towards me and stuck the shotgun into my groin.
‘I'll blow your fucking balls off if you're not careful.’
I knew he meant it. He was one of those people who just didn't care. The most frightening you can meet. They're polite to women and will bounce little babies on their knees. But come to the crunch and they'll top you without a qualm and then go home and have their dinner as though nothing has happened. As far as they're concerned nothing has.
There are only two kinds of people in the world to them, their own and the rest. If you were one of the rest, woe betide your chances of surviving a ruck.
‘Listen, girls,’ I said, ‘this is fun, but I've got things to do. So why don't you tell me exactly what you want.’
The blonde spoke very softly and clearly as if to a backward child. ‘We want you to get your nose out of things that don't concern you. We want you to mind your own business. And we're going to make sure you do. We're going to kill you.’
He emphasised each point by poking me in the groin with the gun. The footsteps on the stairs got closer. Heavyweight leant back against the door.
‘What's all this about?’ I gestured to the dead girl.
‘Well, cunt,’ the blonde replied, ‘we want to leave you here with her for when the filth arrive. It'll be a touching scene. You and your girlfriend in Hell.’
‘You really should cancel your subscription to “Boy's Own Crime Club”,’ I said. ‘All that florid reading is going to your head.’
He drew his fist back and punched me on the side of the jaw.
I should have known better than to criticise another man's literary taste. My head snapped around and blood filled my mouth. I began to sweat and the smell from the dead body seemed to be getting worse.
With my peripheral vision I saw the drug paraphernalia on the floor by the dead girl. And I noticed for the first time that there was a syringe clasped in her hand.
The footsteps stopped on the landing outside the room. I shook my head to clear the dizziness I felt. I turned towards the heavyweight and as I did so, I sensed the blonde lift the shotgun above his head. I heard the gun displace the air above my head. Suddenly I felt a terrible pain, and then all the lights went out.
It was worse than a dozen hangovers. I felt myself falling into a black ocean from which I was convinced with my last ounce of consciousness that I would never emerge again.
Then I felt nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
I slowly drifted in and out of a dream.
At first I thought I was lying in bed next to my wife and daughter on one of those happy days we'd had together.
I reached out to keep them safe, but they kept moving further away from me. The bed in my fantasy was hard and unyielding. As I came fully awake, I know I whispered their names.
I found myself sprawled face down on a piece of stinking carpet. What I'd imagined to be the sound of Laura's voice was in fact a man asking if I was alright. I forced open my eyes and found myself staring at a pair of official issue police boots.
I dragged myself, complaining bitterly, back into the real world. ‘He's awake, I think,’ said the uniformed policeman squatting at my side.
Then to make sure, he caught my right earlobe between two fingers nails and twisted it hard.
That's the kind of thing they teach you in today's police force.
‘Alright,’ I said through the pain. ‘Leave it alone.’
I tried to sit up, but the agony in my head was too much. Not only could I still feel the remains of my hangover, but my jaw was swollen and the blow from the gun barrel had ripped the skin open in a long shallow wound. It had raised a huge bump on the back of my skull.
Finally, some clown had torn off half my ear.
I touched the back of my neck gingerly. Blood had congealed thickly in my hair. I felt a mess. It was not time to meet new people. I tried to speak again but my mouth was dry. It tasted of blood and my tongue was swollen and sticking to the roof of my mouth.
I felt as though I needed a month on a health farm.
The smell in the room was appalling. I moved my head round with difficulty and two police constables swung into my line of vision. One was trying to help me into a sitting position. The other was staring with sick fascination at the body in the chair. He looked as though he felt that it might suddenly jump up and bite him. There was no sign of the other three recent occupants of the room.
I felt the remains of the previous night's vodka and this morning's full English breakfast rise into my throat.
‘Fresh air,’ I choked. ‘I need fresh air.’
‘Don't let that bleeder go,’ said the copper by the body.
‘He won't go far,’ said the other.
‘I've got to get out of here,’ I said, trying to pull myself onto my feet.
The first policeman helped me up and led me out of the room and onto the landing. He held me firmly by the arm and propelled me toward the window. He forced the ill fitting pane up in its frame. I leant out and breathed the fresh air.
Normally it smelled foul, but now it tasted clean and helped to clear my head. I immediately started to feel better.
In the distance I could hear the sound of a siren coming closer.
‘Ambulance, Phil,’ the officer holding me said, turning towards the open door without loosening his grip on me.
‘They can turn that fucking row off. There's no hurry now,’ said the other officer from within the room.
‘You get in the corner, out of the way. And don't move,’ said my policeman to me.
I nodded and let him lead me across the landing again. I slumped down and leant my head against the banisters trying to will some strength back into my body.
The copper towered over me and said, ‘Looks like you fucked up here mate.’
I didn't bother to reply. Just asked, ‘Got any water?’
He looked into the room containing the dead girl.
‘Phil. Get a drop of water, will you?’
‘This is not a bloody cafe,’ came the reply.
‘Do me a favour,’ I whined.
‘Come on, Phil,’ he said again.
In a moment, Phil, as I now knew his name to be, appeared with a mug of water. I grabbed it and greedily drank some even though the cup was none too clean. Normally I'm fussy that way.
I suddenly heard the door of the house burst open and heavy footsteps began to climb the stairs. The sound brought everything back to me. I started to shake. Not so bad that anyone would notice, but bad enough.
‘Keep him out of the way, John,’ said Phil. ‘And you'd better cuff him just to be on the safe side.’
‘You're not arresting me, are you?’ I asked.
‘Cuff the fucker, John,’ repeated Phil, then turned to me and said ‘Don't be so fucking previous son. There's a dead body in there.’
He gestured into the room. ‘What do you think we're going to do? Call you a mini-cab to run you home?’
I drank the last of the water and allowed myself to be hand-cuffed. At least they weren't being rough with me.
The footsteps turned out to belong to two ambulancemen who had come to collect the overdose case.
The ambulancemen stood around waiting for the police doctor to arrive.
He turned up a few minutes after them.
At the same time two detectives and the forensic crew arrived. Both the plainclothes men were unknown to me.
