Just Another Angel

by Mike Ripley

  Stubbly was more or less on cue. I was window-shopping across the road at Tower Records (good selection, but top price) when I saw him in the reflection. When I was sure he was alone, I followed him into the bank, and while he queued, I read a leaflet to see if I qualified for a home mortgage. (I didn’t.)

  By the time he took to do his business, the bank’s video cameras must have had me down as a fairly suspicious character, and I was happy to stop fidgeting when he finally turned away from the cashier and headed for the door. He was stuffing a thick wad of notes into his inside jacket pocket as he did so, and I wondered briefly why Stubbly wanted all those French francs; but then, that wasn’t any of my business, was it?

  ‘Hello, William, old son,’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Bloody Nora,’ he spluttered, slapping a hand to his wallet. ‘Don’t creep up on people like that, specially not in a bank, for Christ’s sake.’

  I held the door for him on to the street.

  ‘You’re getting too set in your ways, you know. That could be dangerous at your age.’

  ‘From what I hear, it could be dangerous being your age,’ he said shiftily, avoiding my eye.

  ‘And just what do you mean by that?’ I asked, stepping sideways to avoid a brace of female traffic wardens and smiling my best smile as a talisman in case they should visit Golden Square. It never does any good, but what the hell else works with them?

  Stubbly paused for a moment, then rocked forward on his heels and prodded me gently in the chest with a forefinger.

  ‘Just for once, for p’raps the only time in your life, take a bit of advice from your elders and betters.’ I waited with bated breath. ‘Get lost.’

  ‘Get lost? You mean piss off, don’t you? I’ve told you about reading the Sun. You really must improve your vocabulary.’

  Stubbly shook his head and started walking towards Brewer Street.

  ‘Can you not take just one single thing seriously?’

  ‘Bill, I’ll try,’ I pleaded, ‘but I have to know what the fuck is going on.’

  He stopped again, and we had to flatten ourselves against a wall as a Post Office van mounted the pavement to avoid an illegally parked British Telecom van.

  ‘Just what do you think is going on?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Bill. I’m being hassled by a gorilla called Nevil – somebody I’ve never even met. And all I know is he’s getting literally close to home and he works for you, if you include disabling your barmen in the conditions of employment, that is.’

  He looked at me and chewed his bottom lip as if searching for a remnant of breakfast.

  ‘Just go and lose yerself for a week, son. Honestly, it’ll be the best for all concerned in the long run. Especially you, young Angel. Just go away for a week – two at the most.’

  And then he started to walk away, leaving me staring at a bare wall. I did a hop, skip and a bit of a jump to get in front of him and put a hand against his chest. Stubbly isn’t a big man, and he’s unfit and much older than me, but violence isn’t my scene. Unless the odds are really in my favour – and I mean hugely so. (An attack from behind in an unlit alley with no witnesses and an Uzi is my idea of a fair fight.)

  ‘Hey, hey, not so fast, Bill. We’re talking serious grievous bodily here, maybe loss of life and limb. Maybe mine. I’m interested; you might even say morbidly fascinated. What have I done to deserve it, I ask?’

  He made a half-hearted attempt to brush away my hand. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see you and, for your sake, don’t be seen with me.’ He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

  ‘William … William … Come on, loosen up. Why shouldn’t I be seen talking to an old mate, eh?’

  ‘Because I’m not frightened of you, my lad, but I’m scared shitless of Nevil. And if he asks me if I’ve seen you, I’ll tell him as fast as I can. You can be sure of that.’

  It was nice in an uncertain world to be able to rely on one thing. Stubbly would never need 30 pieces of silver; he’d take a cheque.

  ‘Just tell me why he’s after me, Bill, that’s all.’ I think I managed to keep the shakes out of my voice.

  ‘I dunno,’ he said quickly, ‘and that’s straight. I really don’t.’

  ‘What about Kenny, then? What had he done?’

  ‘Kenny didn’t do nothing. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, like I am now, so just piss off out of it, will you? Leave me be.’

  I didn’t.

  ‘No way, José.’ I put both hands up this time. ‘There’s a lot of bad vibes about – both you and at the club.’

  ‘Whaddayoumean? Nothing wrong with the club.’

  ‘Oh, come on, William, you’re not exactly doing gangbusters business, are you?’

  ‘I’ve got problems with the licence,’ he said, like he’d rehearsed it. ‘So I thought it best to lie low for a while; keep the nose clean by cutting out the rowdies. That’s all.’

  I didn’t like being called a rowdie, but then I didn’t exactly have the time or resources to sue for defamation, if that’s the legal terminology for someone who slags you off in public.

  ‘That’s bullshit and you know it. The Mimosa is going down the pan faster than Dynorod could. You’ve lost your customers and you’ve lost Kenny and suddenly you’re employing a goon on a free transfer from Masters of the Universe. What’s the crack, eh?’

  ‘Nevil doesn’t work for me,’ he snapped, truly indignant.

  ‘So what’s he doing at the club, then?’

  ‘He has –’ Stubbly began to look shifty; that didn’t help; he always did look shifty – ‘business interests in the club, that’s all. Keep away from him, Angel, and keep away from the Mimosa. It’s only for a week or so …’

  He stopped himself. He’d said too much – and I hadn’t even begun to cotton on.

  ‘What’s happening next week, then, Bill? Come on, I’m a big boy now, I can hack it.’

  Bill made a determined effort to push me aside, and I had to let him. Over his shoulder, I’d seen a pair of beat coppers walking by. The last thing I needed was being branded a mugger.

  ‘Just disappear, will yer,’ Stubbly was saying. ‘Go away and stay away from me.’

  Then, over his shoulder, he added: ‘And stay away from the club. And that bloody woman. She’s trouble, I tell you.’

  Women – trouble? Gee, if only I’d known that earlier in life.

  As it was, I almost missed them.

  I’d parked Armstrong around the side of Sedgeley House in one of the diagonal streets that run off to the Edgware Road. It was a quiet little street with the obligatory Charrington’s pub at the end, one that, like most of the pubs around there, had a Gents down a near-vertical flight of stairs. A damned dangerous architectural feature if you ask me, which added weight to my theory that the pub must have been designed by a feminist with a grudge.

  I was munching a meat pie and reading an early edition of the Standard when I saw them, and then only because I happened to glance in the mirror.

  Nevil was leading Jo by the arm towards a white Ford Sierra. There was no mistaking his bulk, but I could have been fooled by Jo if I hadn’t known her. She was doing a reasonable Madonna impression: black leather mini-skirt, black fishnets and ankle socks, black-and-silver high heels. To top things off, she wore the sort of sunglasses most people thought were old-fashioned in 1958 but now cost about 50 quid a go, and nearly a furlong of white chiffon wrapped around her head, snood-like.

  They must have come out of a back entrance to the flats, and they were intent on avoiding somebody, although I’d seen nothing suspicious when I’d cruised down Seymour Place. But then that funny copper, Malpass, had known I’d been out front on Sunday. How?

  I didn’t worry about it; I had some driving to do. Despite the virtual anonymity of the FX4 cab
anywhere in London, I kept a safe distance behind the Sierra as Nevil headed south and then east, crossing the river in Chelsea, then turning east again, running behind Battersea power station.

  The cabs were thinner on the ground now, so I kept a couple of cars between us. Once past the Oval, they got even scarcer, and following became more difficult, basically because I didn’t know where I was. I’d never really explored the bandit country north of Peckham; but at least there were plenty of vehicles around to cover me. In fact, every second one seemed to be a jobbing builder’s pick-up, either a Mazda or a Toyota, loaded with bits of scaffolding and bags of sand. I knew the type: five years of self-employed brickying, then sell up and buy into a pub near Clacton or Southend and spend the summer serving light-and-bitter to self-employed brickies on a day out with the kids from Peckham or Deptford. So forth, so fifth.

  At one point, I almost lost them, until I realised that the Sierra had pulled into a garage for gas. I stopped a hundred yards down the road and checked my bearings in the paperback A-Z I keep taped behind the sun visor. It didn’t help. I still had no idea where we were going, but I kept the A-Z up against my face as the Sierra overtook me.

  Back in pursuit, I was relieved to see the Sierra turn north-east towards Greenwich and the river again, running by the old dockyards and into Woolwich. Automatically I checked that I had plenty of fuel myself. I mean, this was still virgin territory, there were no tube lines running to this part of the frontier. God – I was sounding more and more like a real North Londoner all the time.

  I almost ran up their exhaust pipe as they turned right off Plumstead Road down the side of a school and into the backstreets.

  Fortunately, Nevil wasn’t looking in his mirror; he had his head out of the driver’s window as if looking for a street name. I gave them as long as I dared before cutting up a newsprint lorry and following them. I was just in time to see the Sierra hang a left once over the railway.

  I was right to be cautious. The Sierra had parked about a third of the way down the street, so I went on past the junction and ran Armstrong up onto the pavement.

  Leaving his engine running, I nipped back to the junction, hugging the side of a terraced house before peering round the corner.

  Nevil was holding the passenger door open for Jo, but they seemed to be arguing. He was wearing a grubby trench coat with the collar turned up, so I still could not get a good look at him, but there was no mistaking his dimensions. I reckoned that his neck and my waist measurements just about matched.

  He leaned inwards and seemed to lift Jo out of the car with one hand. If he’d wanted to lift the whole car, I think he could have.

  On the pavement, Jo shook herself free and smoothed down the front of her leather mini-skirt. Nevil locked the door and slammed it and then indicated to her to lead on. They disappeared into the front garden of one of the houses.

  I checked to see if Armstrong was still there and then risked a crouching run as far as the Sierra’s tail-lights. If anybody had seen me, they must have thought the SAS was on exercise in the area.

  They hadn’t gone into a house as I’d thought. They’d gone down a narrow alleyway – up North they’re called ‘ginnels,’ but don’t ask me why; I just observe, I don’t translate – which led to another alley at right-angles. Running along that were the back gardens of a terrace of houses we must have driven by.

  I had left Armstrong too long, and I hurried back, resisting the temptation to damage the Sierra in some small way (just for peace of mind).

  Three small black kids had gathered around Armstrong’s bonnet and were gazing in wonder at the gently vibrating engine.

  ‘Piss orf,’ I hissed at them, and they calmly turned away and continued down the street, convinced I really was a genuine cabby.

  The A-Z told me that the gardens off the alley belonged to the houses on Lee Metford Road, and there seemed no good reason why Nevil had not just driven straight there. Unless, of course, he did not want to be seen. It was fairly obvious that Jo did not want to be recognised, but then who would, with Nevil in tow?

  I turned Armstrong round on his axis and backtracked until I found Lee Metford Road. The house I was after was on the south side, that much I knew, but it seemed a pretty standard sort of street with terraced houses down both sides, distinguished only by the colours of the front doors where the residents had actually bothered to renew the paintwork. There were a few cars parked, but none with anyone in it as far as I could see.

  Still, I didn’t risk a second run, and instead I turned left at the end and found myself back on Plumstead Road. I pointed Armstrong westwards, but pulled over near a post office and a couple of shops to have a think.

  Two minutes later, I was sure nobody had ever mentioned Woolwich in connection with Jo. She hadn’t, Stubbly hadn’t and neither had that laid-back copper Malpass. Maybe Nevil lived here, but if he did, why didn’t he use the front door?

  All I could think of was that I knew that a Lee Metford was the forerunner of the Lee Enfield .303 rifle and almost became standard issue to the British army before WW1. This close to Woolwich Arsenal, it was logical that they should name a street after it.

  You see, I know stuff like that. That’s why I always win at Trivial Pursuit.

  Sometimes I worry me.

  Chapter Eleven

  The answer was staring me in the face. She was a very tasty young mum pushing a baby in a buggy into the post office I was parked in front of, on her way to claim her family allowance, no doubt. The baby was just old enough to have allowed Mum to get her figure back, and Mum’s tight wool skirt made sure everybody knew she had. She smiled in answer to my naturally inquisitive stare. Maybe Woolwich wasn’t such a bad place after all.

  But I had no time for that sort of dalliance. I waited until she’d swung her hips down the road before I went in. Despite what I fancied, it was the post office I needed.

  A jovial Indian lady struggling to stay inside her sari helped me find the Electoral Register covering Lee Metford Road and I ran a finger down the names to see if any rang a bell. You can find most people that way unless, like me, they don’t register to vote. Ah, isn’t democracy wonderful?

  ‘Can I help you at all, chuck?’ asked the Indian lady in a nasal Birmingham twang.

  ‘Er ... no thanks, love. I’m just looking for some old family …’

  Scamp.

  Ada Edna Scamp. 23 Lee Metford Road.

  ‘This is up to date, isn’t it?’

  The postmistress waddled over to my shoulder.

  ‘Oh aye, chuck, at least I think so. There’s no much call for it round here, though.’ She fumbled a pair of glasses from the folds of her sari and looked down the register. ‘Oi think that’s up to date, as far as oi can see, that is, chuck.’

  She glanced down the list to where my finger was. ‘‘Ere, you’re not looking for Mrs Scamp, are you?’

  ‘The name seems familiar. Do you know her?’

  She put her hands to her cheeks and rocked her head from side to side.

  ‘That Mrs Scamp is an old witch, I tell you. I come here three weeks ago to look after this place for my brother Rajiv while he does his business accountancy course. Three weeks only, and already I know that Mrs Scamp. In she comes for her pension, takes it without a by-your-leave, then calls me a bloody wog and tells me to go home to where I come from.’

  ‘And what did you say to that?’ I asked, smiling sweetly.

  ‘I asked her if she knew how bloody much the train fare to Wolverhampton was.’

  In Armstrong’s boot, along with the sleeping-bag and other occasional essentials, I keep what I call my cabby’s disguise. It’s fairly simple: a fawn flat cap and an old, red-and-black pullover with a hole at the elbow of the right sleeve. (That’s where a real musher always rests his arm on the cab window-frame during traffic jams.) For winter camouflage, I have an additional
item; a sleeveless, quilted shooting jacket that slips on rather like a bullet-proof vest. I like to blend in when I can.

  I checked the backstreets to see if the Sierra was still there. It wasn’t, so I did another U-turn and cut back into Lee Metford Road.

  No 23 had a front garden the size of a Kleenex, which was either badly looked after or was one of the new butterfly sanctuaries Greenpeace were trying to establish. The door was a scuffed and peeling blue, which had probably been painted at least once since the house was built, maybe to celebrate the toilet coming indoors. It had a tarnished brass knocker showing a pixie cobbling shoes and declaring itself to be a present from Cornwall.

  I fingered Jo’s credit cards, which I’d slipped into a trouser pocket. It was a flimsy pretext and might not get me anywhere, but it was the best I could do at such short notice.

  I took a deep breath, pulled the cabby cap down over my eyes and knocked seven bells out of the Cornish pixie.

  ‘Yes? I ain’t buying anyfink.’

  I’d half-expected the door to be on a chain or to be asked to push some ID through the letter-box before she opened up. You know, the stuff pensioners are supposed to do. This one just flung the door open, and she’d either been standing behind it when I knocked or, more likely, she’d seen me coming. I knew several wrinklies who took hours to find their glasses when it came to signing a cheque but who could see a net curtain twitch three streets away.

  ‘Mrs Scamp? You ought to be careful opening this door to strangers,’ I beamed, though I don’t know why I was worried. The last time I saw a face like that was in Macbeth, and she had sisters.

  ‘I am careful, sunshine,’ she said without smiling, then opened the door wider. Behind her in the hallway was a grey Rottweiler no bigger than a pony and no fiercer than a cobra with a hangover.

  ‘Go on,’ said Mrs Scamp. ‘Make his day.’

  I took a step back. With lodgers like Fang there, who needs Neighbourhood Watch?