After resting in a small park near Lord's, we walked down St John's Wood High Street, where there were fancy shops and restaurants. Further on, the streets were wide and the houses large.
It was then that I saw her. She was sitting in the garden of a pub on the corner of the road. Sandy, my Sandy. She wore a silky blue top and her brown shiny hair was in a high ponytail. She was sitting alone at a table drinking a beer. Jazz pulled the lead and rushed towards her. Before we could get near, a guy came out of the pub with a packet of peanuts. He was much bigger than me and at least two years older. Seriously good looking. I watched them as he put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up and kissed him. It wasn't just the kiss that got to me. It was the length of time. The way she held his hand.
I was at the entrance of the garden and was about to walk away, when she noticed me. I felt myself blushing.
'Jack . . . Jack Miner. What are you doing here?'
I noticed her puzzled expression as she looked at me. Unshaven, sweaty, dirty.
'I had to do some bu . . . business here,' I stuttered.
I could see that they didn't believe me.
'Are you OK?' she asked. 'Why don't you sit down?'
She stroked Jazz who was panting and wagging his tail madly.
'I think he's thirsty.'
There was a bowl of water nearby. I picked it up and put it in front of the dog. He gulped it down.
'Sit down,' Sandy's friend said. 'Want a beer?'
'Half a pint of lager,' I mumbled, thinking that I might as well have a drink. I was trapped.
'Jack Miner . . . Friend from Yorkshire,' said Sandy introducing us. 'Peter Taylor.'
Taylor shook my sweaty hand firmly and went inside to get the drink. Through the open door, I saw him take some ice, rub his hands and wipe them with a paper napkin.
'Are you sure that you're OK, Jack?' asked Sandy. 'You don't look it.'
'I'm fine. Lots of things have happened. I'll sort it out,' I said.
She told me that she was staying with her uncle in Hampstead. That Taylor had taken her to Lord's. They were going to a party. Before I could ask her for her address, he was back with the beer.
Taylor touched her hand. I was pleased when she withdrew it. He glared at me.
'How long are you staying in London?' he asked.
'Not sure, I'll know next week.'
'When do you go back to school?' he asked, patronisingly.
'Not sure I'm going back. Thinking of starting a business,' I countered. 'My Dad left me some shares. I'm selling them.'
'Maybe I can help. My father works for an investment bank,' said Taylor with a disbelieving sneer.
'No thanks, I've got a broker.'
He didn't bother asking any more questions. We finished our drinks and walked into the street.
Sandy touched my elbow: 'Need a lift anywhere, Jack?'
'I'm going to Hampstead,' I said hoping they were on their way to the West End. I felt so small and upset that I wanted to get away from them.
'Off to the concert at Kenwood?'
'Yes,' I lied, not knowing what she was talking about.
'Our party's in Highgate. We can drop him there, can't we Peter?' she said.
'You can walk from there to Kenwood,' said Taylor unenthusiastically. 'What about your dog?'
'He'll be OK. I'll put him on my lap.'
Taylor's open Golf convertible was parked near the pub. I climbed into the back, with Jazz next to me. He drove through side streets to avoid the traffic and eventually reached Highgate Village. At the top of the hill, the car was caught in a traffic jam and became almost stationary.
'Kenwood's down there,' said Taylor, pointing towards the bottom of the hill. 'On the way to Hampstead. About half a mile.'
'Thanks. It would be good to see you, Sandy? Where did you say you were staying?'
'I told you. With my Uncle. I'm going back in a few days,' she replied impatiently.
She scribbled down an address on a piece of paper, allowing Taylor to glance at it. It was Perth, Australia. Obviously she didn't want to see me again.
Jazz jumped out of the car and we started walking towards Kenwood. I was feeling low. By some miracle I had found Sandy, but had cocked up. I kicked a stone in front of me. Had felt like an idiot in front of her boyfriend. Despite what happened in Bridlington, she wasn't interested. I was a loser. Worse still, she was probably sorry for me.
Jazz became excited when he spotted woodland on the left. The evening was beginning to close in. We turned into a narrow gate and heard music. It was Dixieland Jazz and had to be the Kenwood concert. A narrow path through a small wood ended up in a field. In the distance there were lots of parked cars. It was now quite dark, but the moon had risen, helping me to stumble along a pathway towards the music.
A crowd of people were in front of Kenwood, a huge stately home. In the distance, down a hill, was a white stage. I tried to get closer to the performers, but there was a fence surrounding the concert area and plenty of guards. Friends and families were sitting on the grass, eating and listening to the music, within and outside the enclosure. The band was playing furiously and some people were dancing. We sat down next to a family who were sitting on blankets and watching from outside the fenced concert area. The kids were keen on Jazz, my Jazz. They gave him some scraps, pulled him up by his paws and danced with him. The family gave me some chocolate cake and I felt much better. We stayed there for a while and I began thinking of Dad. He would have loved the concert. I began to feel depressed again as I watched people enjoying themselves. All I had was Jazz, an old watch, a book and a few pounds. I didn't think about any of the positives. The money I would get from selling the shares. What I could do with it. That money was abstract. Not the here and now.
The concert ended with an amazing firework display. Rockets soared into the sky and burst into multicoloured patterns. When it was all over, the audience rolled up their blankets and ground sheets and packed up their rubbish. Shadowy figures wound their way home in the moonlight. Jazz and I forced our way against the tide of people coming out of the concert area. We slipped inside. The audience had cleared most of the rubbish and the cleaners were placing the remainder into large black bags and huge bins. I asked for a job, but the cleaner who was in charge, just patted Jazz and shook his head. The leftovers from the food and drink stalls went to the staff or were sold at very cheap prices.
I managed to get a large bottle of coke, a packet of crisps and some chicken and bacon sandwiches for a pound. Jazz managed to find some cold meat, some bread and other scraps of food. Luckily someone had left a blanket. Closer to the pond that overlooked the empty stage, I found a ground sheet. We left the concert area and joined some people who were walking in the darkness up an avenue lined with trees. A road to the right led to a clearing. Helped by moonlight I walked to some thick trees, laid down the groundsheet, covered Jazz and myself with the blanket and fell asleep.
* * *
I woke up suddenly. Jazz was snarling. A black retriever was sniffing us. It was a bright summer morning. The place was full of dog walkers and joggers. I was starving and gobbled up the crisps and shared the sandwiches with Jazz. Afterwards, I covered the blanket in the groundsheet and hid them in the bushes. Then we wandered down a winding hill until we came to some ponds. We walked past the first pond with swans and ducks. Fishermen were trying their luck, but it didn't seem as if they had caught anything. We ambled on until we came across a second pond, fairly close to the first. Men were diving off the steps of a wooden platform into the brown water and several were sunbathing on a large raft in the middle of the water.
I tied Jazz to the fence and tread the narrow path that led to a changing room without a roof. A few men were sunbathing naked and some were changing for their morning swim or having a shower. At last I could have my first proper wash in two days. The water was ice cold, but it felt good.
Breakfast, a walk and shower had stopped me thinking about myself. But as we continu
ed our walk, I thought of Sandy and the gloom came back. I was a complete and utter failure. People walked past us, but I didn't even notice them. I was clean, but still felt uncomfortable in my smelly clothes.
A cafeteria, near some tennis courts and a children's playground with large carved wooden animals, wasn't open. So we kept on going, southwards, out of the Heath, towards Central London. After aimlessly crossing a few streets I came across a market with lots of stalls and customers. A T-shirt and two pairs of boxers cost £4.80, leaving £4.20. Every penny had to be counted. That's how tight it was. I bought a couple of dog biscuits for Jazz in a pet shop on the corner of the road.
For some reason I was mesmerised by the goldfish and the tropical fish swimming in the glass tank. Up and down, backwards and forwards in their small aquarium. I must have been there for ages until a shop assistant shouted: 'Either buy some fish or leave. You can't hang around here.'
I looked at her blankly, ran out and shuffled through the market feeling depressed and lonely. My life was awful.
Even if I was going to get £10,000 for my shares, Baton would probably find me, take the money and leave me with nothing. I was so down, that I forgot that Jazz was walking alongside me. Didn't even notice him foul the pavement. Dad had taught me to pick it up, but this time I couldn't be bothered.
It was late morning. I was getting hungry again and bought a loaf of bread and some milk at a small supermarket. There were some newspapers there. The Sunday Telegraph's front page headline was: 'Russian Banker found hanging from Charing Cross Bridge.' It was getting hot, but I went cold. I picked up the newspaper and quickly read the story.
The article said that in the early hours of Saturday morning, the police had found a body dangling over the Thames. He was Boris Yapolovitch, chief executive of Moscow Narodsky, a Russian bank. It had collapsed with estimated losses of at least £4 billion. I read further and shivered. The story continued that a witness had reported the hanging, but had disappeared. The police were searching for a boy who was about sixteen or seventeen. They were investigating whether Yapolovitch had committed suicide.
Moscow Narodsky was one of Russia's biggest banks, the article said. It lent money to Russian companies producing oil, gold, nickel, platinum, aluminium and other resources. Yapolovitch, a leading Russian banker, was well known in financial and business circles. He was married with three children and had houses and flats in Moscow, London, Paris and New York. He owned a football club in Moscow.
I began to panic, held Jazz's lead tightly and ran across several roads, dodging between cars. I wasn't looking properly and we were lucky that we weren't knocked over. I tried to think logically and calm down. Had to make a decision. I could go back to the police and give them more details, but they would find that my finger prints and DNA matched those on the rope. I could be a murder suspect. If they let me go, I would be in the newspapers and the killers, who were probably Russian, would try and get me. Baton, the liquidator, would find me and take the 10K from the brokers. Better to hide on Hampstead Heath for a few days, collect my money at Wardle and leave London. I felt my cap and realised that the murderers saw me wearing it, when I was running away from them. So I took it off and threw it in a dustbin.
We headed back towards the Heath and reached a station called Gospel Oak. Nearby was a large red brick wall. It surrounded a swimming pool and a long queue of mainly parents and kids were waiting to get in. There was no way I wanted to be with people in my mood. So I did my best to avoid them. We walked around the wall, following the path that led to the cafeteria that I had seen in the morning.
A little later we came across a pond where dogs were barking and swimming. Jazz ran in, chasing after another dog's stick. Both of them were swimming towards the deep water. Some swans were nearby, but I was so involved in my problems that I didn't notice what was going on.
'That swan is going for your dog,' shrieked a woman. 'It will drown him.'
I looked up and saw the large white bird swim rapidly towards Jazz. The swan was on him, pushing him down with its wing. Jazz was a strong swimmer but he couldn't escape. There was only one thing I could do. I threw off my jacket, waded in and swam towards them. The swan was on top of Jazz. If it pushed him under water, the dog would drown.
I grabbed some sticks in the water and threw them at the swan. Missed. At last I reached the bird, but by now Jazz was under. Keeping my face away from the vicious beak, I touched a wing. The bird was startled and withdrew from me. It then took off and flew across the pond to the other side. Thankfully the other swans kept their distance. Jazz was underwater. I couldn't see him because it was muddy, but I felt for his body, found his hind legs and pulled him up. Then I put my arm around his neck, lifesaver style, and swam back to shore. By then a big crowd had gathered. I shook Jazz, but he didn't stir. Then I hugged the dog, feeling helpless.
'Jazz, Jazz. Come on boy, come on!'
I shook and pumped him. Jazz my friend, my only friend. What would I do if he died?
6 - FISHING FOR GOLD
I'm sitting on the sofa in a large room. A beam of sunlight filled with tiny particles, crosses the room. It comes through a dirty window and reaches a dusty bookcase. Books. Lots of books. Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Melanie Klein. Nearby, 'The Criminal Mind', 'Dangerous Severe Personality Disorder'.
The psychiatrist opens the door and walks in. He's about fifty with owl shaped glasses. He's short with a fat tummy. Floppy, black hair. Dandruff on navy blue jacket.
Walks over to desk. Takes out a brown file, notebook and pen. Sits down on large leather chair. Silent. Observes me. Then talks softly. Yellow teeth match nicotine-stained fingers.
'I can see that you've made yourself comfortable.'
'There wasn't much else to do.'
A hollow laugh. Must have heard that line umpteen times.
'I'm Dr Klugheim. Did Mrs Small tell you about me?'
'She told me that you're her boss. Asked me whether you could read my notebook. I said it was OK, provided no one else did.'
'Very interesting. .. Looks like the beginnings of a book. Who taught you to write?'
'Dunno. . . Not school. . . Teachers were useless. It just comes out.'
He waits. Says nothing. Me sullen. Staring him out.
'You've been here three months. Mrs Small thought that it might be a good idea if we met. Talk things through.'
No reply.
'The wardens report that you don't mix much. Keep to yourself.'
'I'm OK. Just keep my head down. Count the days until I'm out of here!'
He opens up the file and reads some pages. I notice they're typed.
'It says here that you were feeling down. How about now?'
'I feel great. What do you expect? It's a holiday camp. How do you feel?'
'The bridge. Those nightmares. Still having them?'
No response.
‘Are you finding that writing helps you?'
'I just think about the past and write stuff down.'
'Good!'
Silence again. Eyes on the minute specs in the sunbeam. Away from him.
'Your parents. It must have been hard. . .'
Begin to lose my cool. Doesn't take a genius to understand why I'm here. The Governor, screws and doctors are panicking. Ernie Shiren managed to hang himself. Happened last week.
A kid of eighteen dead. Did you have little talks with him?' I snap.
Klugheim winces: 'We're here to talk about you, not Ernie.'
I'm silent again. Thinking, calculating. Better play along with him. He's the best chance I've got. Could get me out of this place. Recommend me for good behaviour.
'If you think I'm going to top myself, you're mistaken . . . I've got better things to do.'
'Good. Sometimes things can overwhelm you,' he says.
I sit there. He waits. I wait. Wonder what he's thinking.
'You were depressed. But you still jumped in and saved your dog,' he says after a couple of minutes. 'Brave, but reckless.'
‘I can swim.'
'You cannot believe how many people die trying to rescue animals.'
'It's a funny thing. . . That swan attack got me going.’
'Go on. Tell me what happened.'
I don't know why, but I feel relaxed with this guy. My head slips back on to the sofa and I let go. Talk freely. Will write it down later.
* * *
An old woman held Jazz down while I pumped him. She was the owner of the dog that had been swimming with Jazz, when the Swan attacked. We thought that it was all over. He just lay there as I pumped and pumped his tummy, pushing down on the soft fur. Jazz stirred, coughed and slowly lifted his head. A mixture of water and vomit dribbled from his mouth. He rose and stood unsteadily on his feet, his tail down. Then he shook himself. The crowd clapped and cheered and began to move away. The old lady gave Jazz a treat and his tail began to wag. Then another treat.
'I think he'll be OK,' said the lady, touching my hand. 'Let's go and have some coffee.'
I picked up my jacket and we followed a path towards a gate at the corner of the Heath, near some tennis courts. The lady was seriously strange. She talked to her dog as if the animal was a person. 'He's getting better all the time, Pattie. You watch over him OK?'
My wet clothes chafed me while we walked, but the sun was hot and my shirt was drying quickly. Dogs have amazing powers of recovery and Jazz managed to keep up.
We sat outside an Italian restaurant, near the Heath gate.
'Two cappucinos. Lots of chocolate,' shouted the lady.
'Pizza. Plenty of ham,' replied the waitress, who obviously knew her.
Couples nearby, observed us without a word. Me, in wet muddy clothes, covered with weeds from the pond and the short, dumpy old lady with straggly grey hair. Her blue jumper had several holes in it and her shirt, a frayed collar. The black skirt was creased and blue and red odd socks protruded from her muddy shoes.
'You sir? Anything to eat?'
'No thanks.'
'Two pizzas. You're not Jewish are you?' asked the lady.
Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) Page 5
