by Mike Ripley
‘I’m telling you, he’s crook, sick, ill. Strewth, can’t you see?’
Good for you, lady. I’ll never be sarky about Young Doctors again.
‘He’s had a drink or three, that’s all.’ Thanks, Bunny, I owe you. ‘Come on, Angel-face, open up.’
I grabbed for the door-handle, as much to steady myself as anything else. I didn’t seem to be able to move my legs properly. My hand didn’t seem to be working either.
Just as I flicked off the lock, Bunny must have pulled from the outside. My hand seemed to explode, and I think I must have screamed.
Anyway, there I was lying on the pavement on my back, looking up the skirt of a very tall Qantas air hostess, who was looking down at me in equal amazement.
Of all the opportunities I’d had for a good chat-up line, simply croaking ‘Hospital’ wasn’t one of my best.
Still, you can’t win ‘em all.
One or two now and then would be nice, though.
Bunny drove. I sat in the back with Rayleen (couldn’t you have guessed?), and she made me put my right hand in her lap while she ran her fingertips over most of the rest of my body looking for other injuries. If my right hand hadn’t felt as if somebody had grafted a bunch of bananas onto it and then dipped it in acid, it would have been a pleasant experience. Rayleen didn’t find anything else broken, though she seemed convinced I’d been run over by a steamroller.
Bunny kept talking as he drove, but I had no idea what he was saying. I didn’t really have much idea of what was going on at all. I remember seeing lots of traffic lights, mostly red ones, zip by, and then the lights of Goodge Street underground station, some of which were still working.
Then we were staggering into a hospital casualty department, and I was grateful Bunny was there – they can be dangerous places on a Friday night. Rayleen helped too, or rather her uniform did, giving us a pseudo-official status that meant we could jump the queue. The fact that she could swear like a trooper and at one point told a nurse that I was a security guard escaping from a hijack attempt, also helped.
I was lucky, of course. They always say that if they think you’ve been in a fight, although it was still short of chucking-out time.
A harassed young intern assisted by a cool, pretty nurse (called Ruth, from Stanmore) told me that I was bucking the statistical trend by having three fingers smashed between the knuckle and the phalangeal joint. He told me that the central finger always goes first, followed by the ring finger and then, if you’re lucky, the index. The little finger usually escapes, as mine had. And there had been no damage to any arteries; the small amount of blood there was had come from minor cuts from the broken bottle.
The intern cleaned me up, then made me lie on a trolley in a curtained cubicle. The nurse (just 22 and looking forward to her holiday in Greece) checked my hand for bits of glass and then applied an impression splint. That would come off in two days, she told me, and be replaced by a spatula splint, and yes, she would be on duty on Sunday.
She’d given me a shot to kill the pain, and it was making me drowsy. I asked if I could see the people who’d brought me in, and after a few minutes, Bunny and Rayleen appeared at the bedside.
‘What time is it?’ I asked. ‘Oh, and thanks for the lift.’
‘Going on 11.00, and don’t mention it, it was your diesel,’ said Bunny cheerfully.
‘I had a bag in the cab,’ I said, thinking it was important.
‘I know, I was driving the both of you,’ quipped Bunny, doing a quick Groucho Marx walk around the bed. Rayleen looked at him as if he’d dropped from behind peeling wallpaper.
Bunny straightened up and took my wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it on my chest.
‘There’s no cash left, you’ve been caned. No watch either, if you were wondering.’
That was nice of Nevil. He’d provided me with a cover story – I was supposed to look as if I’d been mugged. Then again, I had. Two hundred travelling money plus two hundred in bad rent money, a watch, my building society account book, three hours of my life and a few digital bones. Well and truly mugged.
‘They left the tapes in Armstrong, that’s one thing,’ said Bunny. ‘Oh – and they didn’t take your swimming trunks either.’
‘Who’s Armstrong?’ asked Rayleen, reasonably enough.
‘The taxi we came in,’ answered Bunny honestly.
‘Why was he wearing swimming trunks?’
‘The sunroof leaks, you wombat. How should I know?’
‘I thought you said he was a friend.’
‘He is. I drove him here, didn’t I?’
Rayleen raised her eyebrows to the heavens and reached into her clutch bag for a pack of cigarettes.
‘Not in here, I’m afraid.’ It was the intern again, this time holding a clipboard and looking official. ‘I’ve got some questions for you, if you’re up to them.’
‘I’d really like a smoke first,’ I croaked, laying it on with a trowel.
‘Entrance hall, if you really must. I’ll be back.’
I swung my legs off the trolley and sat up. My hand throbbed, and with the quickly-drying plaster, it looked like an Indian club sticking out from my shirt sleeve.
With my left hand I fumbled inside my wallet. My driving licences were still there and the odd bits of paper you always accumulate. The card with Malpass’s phone number was still there.
‘Jacket?’ I asked vaguely.
‘We left it in the car,’ said Rayleen.
‘Armstrong’s keys were in the pocket,’ said Bunny.
‘Good. Let’s go have a smoke.’
It’s still the easiest way to get thrown out of hospital. In fact, the three of us, all with duty-free Marlboros well alight, were shown the door in no uncertain terms. Once outside, I threw my cigarette away.
‘Where’s Armstrong?’
‘Round the corner in the space marked Consultant Gynaecologist.’
‘Thanks. Want a lift somewhere?’
‘Nah, that’s okay.’ Bunny put an arm round Rayleen’s waist. ‘We’ll get a minicab. They’re cheaper.’
‘And more reliable,’ I said.
‘You can’t let him go off like that,’ hissed Rayleen loudly. Then she made a fist under Bunny’s chin. ‘And don’t give me any crap about a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. The only thing a man’s got to do in this world is stand up when he pees.’
Bunny had found a philosopher. They were in for an interesting night.
‘You’re right, Rayleen,’ I said. ‘He can’t let me go – until he gives me my keys.’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Bunny, fumbling in his pocket.
‘And a couple of quid; I’ve got the munchies.’
Bunny handed over a fiver, and as I walked away I heard him whisper to Rayleen.
‘He’s hungry. That’s a bad sign.’
It took me ages to work out how to get Armstrong’s door open, but thank God the ignition is on the left. It then took the rest of the century to get my leather jacket on over the plaster. I was shivering and sweating at the same time. I wasn’t fit to drive. ‘I’m not fit to drive,’ I told myself. I was repeating myself as well.
By using my right knee to steady the wheel when I changed gear, I managed to get Armstrong out of the hospital car park. I was tempted to call it a day there and then, pull over and have a kip, but my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t thrown it a bone since the ploughman’s at lunchtime, and it had been quite an eventful day.
There was a fried chicken place open on Baker Street; about the only thing that was. It wasn’t a Kentucky Fried, more a Bayswater Sauté, but it had seats, and the two black guys on duty in the bright red uniforms were so bored they took no notice of me. I ordered a double portion of chicken and a 7-Up and went to a table while they went back to the late movie on Channel 4 on a portable tele
vision.
The chicken came in a box, and the plastic cutlery, salt, pepper and freshen-up tissue all came in sealed envelopes designed for people with two hands. I opened them with my teeth and found that most had more flavour than the chicken.
It wasn’t a good place to sit and sort out your future. I sat and looked at my reflection and that of the formica table in the window. Outside, Baker Street was closed down for the weekend except for the Barracuda Club, which had taken over from the original School Dinners restaurant after it moved across the road to usurp the No 34 Wine Bar. It was good to think that life’s rich pageantry continued even on Baker Street, a much neglected London thoroughfare remembered only by devotees of Sherlock Holmes (now the Abbey National) and Gerry Rafferty (who probably banks there).
I made a decision, or rather I hedged my bets.
I would ring Malpass. If he was there, I’d tell him about Nevil and what had happened. And where Jack Scamp was hiding out. That ought to be enough to bargain myself clear of the whole mess.
Oh yes, I knew where he was, even though I’d been unconscious going in and coming out, because I’d been there before. In fact, I’d suspected before tonight. Dead wise after the event, that’s me.
If he wasn’t home, I’d go back to the squat and keep my head down for a few days. Well, at least until Sunday, when I was on a promise at the hospital with Ruth and some new bandages. By that time, I guessed, Scamp would have got clear. After all, he wasn’t packing suitcases for fun.
Suitcases. Abroad. French francs. I’d seen a 100-franc note on the mantelpiece at old Ma Scamp’s place. Scamp was planning a bunk to France. My, but I was sharp. I wondered if Malpass had any vacancies.
I found a phone box and dialled his number. That was my first mistake.
He answered, and I said who I was. That was my second.
How many are you allowed?
Chapter Fourteen
Malpass told me to meet him in Bateman Street. I wasn’t too keen – there would still be plenty of punters wandering about even at one o’clock in the morning. (‘Do you know what the fucking time is?’ – ‘No, Jack Scamp’s stolen my watch.’ That had got his attention.)
Was I sure he was hiding in the back room of the Mimosa?’
Are frogs waterproof? Of course I was. I knew an empty beer keg when I was tied to one, and the last time I’d seen that particular one there had been a young punk called Emma sitting on it nostrilling certain noxious and probably illegal substances.
Was I sure it was Scamp? No, it was Lord Lucan in drag. Could I describe him? Yes. He’s the only person I know who looks like his passport photograph, and he breaks people’s hands. Oh yeah, that’s him.
I said I had no intention of being within a couple of light years of the Mimosa when Plod and the SWAT team burst in. Malpass said I had a pretty clear-cut choice. I could either meet him near there or he’d have me picked up as a material witness and see how I enjoyed sharing a cell with Jack Scamp. That seemed to me to be a fairly convincing argument, and I was too tired to put up much of a fight.
Soho was quieter than I’d thought it would be. A light rain shower had hurried the last of the rubber-neck tourists off the streets, and the restaurants and sex shows (mostly on video these days) were switching off their come-hither lights. There would still be a bit of clublife here and there through the alleyways, and the all-night gambling schools in Chinatown, though those were usually reserved for the Oriental abacus-for-brains fanatic. But on the whole, Soho was quiet enough for choir practice these days.
I parked Armstrong half on the pavement on Bateman Street, a cut-through little road running west-east, whereas most of Soho is north-south, with a pub on each corner and new shiny offices where once there were honest porn merchants and working girls plying their trade.
I felt oddly naked without my watch; I always do. It’s an affectation I have. Another one is getting myself into situations and then wondering what the hell I was doing there. I decided to give Malpass another five minutes and then I’d disappear. When I thought five minutes were up, I decided to give him another five. I had nothing else planned for the evening.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel nervous. Not then, anyway. I had moved the rubber-handled wrench from the right side of the driver’s seat to the left, but I knew its reassurance was mostly psychological. I could never get a decent swing with my left hand, but at best I would use it only to repel boarders. I had no intention of leaving Armstrong, and had kept the engine ticking over, as there was no way I could start him up in a hurry.
I had killed the lights, and my night vision was well adjusted when he arrived. He almost ruined it by parking right up behind me and flashing his headlights once. He made sure I knew it was him by flicking on his interior light and waving me towards him. There was no sign of any other cars or tanks or armoured personnel carriers and no indication that the police Stukas were waiting to come in and bomb the last pockets of resistance.
Malpass’s car was a five-year-old Vauxhall that had seen better days, but then haven’t we all. The interior was still waiting for its first clean, and the upholstery felt as if it had been textured in buff nicotine.
I sat in the passenger seat and nursed my plaster cast. Malpass looked at it and offered me a cigarette and then a light.
‘You look like you’ve had a right trousering,’ he said succinctly.
‘Nicely put,’ I said, and drew on the cigarette until it made me light-headed.
‘How did you find him?’
‘He found me.’ And I told him what had happened.
‘You were lucky, considering you were set up,’ he said philosophically.
‘You reckon?’
‘Don’t you? You’re not thick. Do you really think Nevil was just out for a stroll when he saw your cab? The wife must have guessed it was you and tipped him off. She’s used you before, to get her stuff back, to establish an alibi for when Jack was going over the wall. Why not again?’
‘But why? Just to get me off her back?’
‘No, to keep Jack happy. He’s been out for nearly a week. Why do you think he’s still around? He’s been waiting to get even with you, that’s all. She probably decided it was best to get it over and done with, and then Jack could finally skip town.’
I was speechless, but my brain must have been ticking loudly.
‘Didn’t think she could do a thing like that? Not to you?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘You should spend less time contemplating your navel and more time studying human nature, sonny. Like me.’
Sonny again.
‘Well, you have more spare time on your hands, Mr Malpass.’ It was a cheap shot but the only one I could come up with.
‘Where do you think he’s headed?’ I asked.
‘Boulogne, almost certainly.’
‘Why Boulogne?’ But it explained the 100-franc note I’d seen at Ma Scamp’s and, come to think of it, the wad of francs I’d spotted in Bill Stubbly’s wallet when I met him in the bank. Was it only yesterday? Well, it was the day before yesterday by now.
‘It’s the only place he’s ever been outside this country. In fact, it’s one of the few places he’s ever been outside London. He used to go regular with his ma when he was a nipper. His dad’s buried there, you see.’
‘What was wrong with Woolwich Crematorium?’
‘It probably wasn’t working in May 1940. Jack Scamp senior was killed just before Dunkirk. Young Jack was born in early ‘41 and never knew him. Brought up by his ma right from the start.’
‘That maybe explains a lot,’ I said, reaching for another cigarette.
‘Explains perhaps, but knowing why he turned out a wrong ‘un doesn’t make it easier to forgive and forget.’
‘You really hate him, don’t you?’
Malpass looked away.
‘Like nothing else on earth, young Angel,
but I don’t expect you to understand. Unless the likes of Jack Scamp are put away for good, law and order will never have any credibility. He laughs at us, the courts, the judges. He just doesn’t care what he does or who he hurts. You should know that. No remorse, not a shred of guilty feeling. If he hasn’t already killed somebody, then it’s only a matter of time. He’s known as Mad Jack inside, you know.’
‘I can see why,’ I said sourly. ‘So, where’s the big manhunt, then? Why haven’t we seen wanted posters up for this dangerous loony now he’s on the run?’
‘Priorities.’
‘Yeah, Jo said that.’
‘What?’
‘She said you didn’t have the manpower to watch them round the clock.’
Malpass made a snorting sound.
‘She’s laughing at us too, but she’s right. Scamp had done 13 months of a two-year stretch and he could’ve got out in a coupla months more if he’d kept his nose clean. So we get him back and he gets maybe an extra six months for going over the wall. Small stuff. He’ll be out again this time next year.’
‘If you get him back, that is.’
‘Oh, I’ll get him. If you’re sure he’s in the Mimosa, that is.’
‘He is, or at least he was a few hours ago. He must have been hiding in the back room behind the stage all the time. That’s why there’s been no music on for a week.’ It was also how he’d overheard me and Kenny the barman talking and drawn his own paranoid conclusions, which had led to both me and Kenny wishing we’d taken out medical insurance.
‘You reckon that this Stubbly guy is in with the Scamp mob?’
‘I doubt it; probably just scared.’
I didn’t tell Malpass about Stubbly’s trip to the bank getting French currency, and I bet myself there had been more than the one I’d seen. But it did explain a lot, especially how Stubbly had managed to keep the Mimosa trouble-free over the years. He had influential friends.
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Malpass threatened.
‘What’s the plan, then? Remember, I’m here under duress.’
