The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  “Indeed. Now you know what you are dealing with. And your time is up.”

  “No! Please. I promise everything I have told you is true. I wanted the money to take my girlfriend out shopping. Please!” He hissed his words in the confines of the alley that led to the back of a Chinese takeaway, the extractor fan working overtime to vent the heady smells of ginger and garlic and deep-fried vegetables. “Please…”

  “You stupid little boy. I meant your time is up. You can leave the alleyway now Matthew. I will be in touch in fifty-eight minutes. If I were you, I would hang around in the street. Best you don’t come home just yet. I will contact you and tell you where you are to be next. But do not go to little Mary’s place. Clear?” He didn’t wait for an answer before tapping the red phone icon and cutting him off.

  Matthew stood. Paced. Went to leave the alley. Where now? Ironically, he felt safe. He turned, walked, stopped. Turned again. Stopped. Looked up, looked down, checked his phone, then pulled the money out of his sock. Was it worth it?

  The five older men left the jackal with the girl.

  “Don’t touch her. Don’t even think about it. Show her some respect. She is chosen by another. Beautiful as she is, you know the rules. But if he comes back, or she tries to do anything stupid…kill her quickly and get out.”

  He did a sort of half salute as he closed the kitchen door of the two-bedroomed south London flat. “Laters brother…”

  “A pity. I could teach you a few things.” The jackal smiled a worrying smile at his captive.

  “My boyfriend would kill you if you even touched me.”

  “Oh, would he? My sweet thing, I’ve met your little boy, and he doesn’t have the courage. And you will never see your boy again if you threaten me.” He grabbed a large kitchen knife from a blackened wood block. It was across her throat before she had time to react.

  He made a sawing motion. “That is how easy it is. Now shut up and sit still.” He checked his watch. “Not long now and then you and your little boy can make sweet love on the sofa whilst mummy is away on holiday.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Darlin’ we know every little thing about you.” He felt so mature, so manly. He wanted to show her how much, but an order was an order. Better to listen than end up dead too.

  He pressed his fingers up to her bright pink waxy lips. “Shh.”

  The UPS courier van went with the flow, no point in rushing, she wouldn’t be there for another fifteen minutes if their source was correct. Left, they even indicated, then right, across the junction, another two minutes then they pulled over and stopped. Hazards on. It’s what courier drivers did – ‘What yellow lines officer, I thought that only meant the public?’

  The driver and front seat passenger sat and waited. Both wearing UPS clothing they were just another cog in the machine, another faceless arm of society that no-one even noticed unless their parcel was delayed.

  And there she was.

  The woman was walking quickly. It was cold. Why wouldn’t you?

  She held her head down, like many in the large city, like many in large cities around the world. Again, it was cold, so why wouldn’t she shield herself from the incessant wind that swept in from the North Sea and bit into every bone in her body?

  She kept her bag tight to her stomach. It contained everything precious to her; her purse, her phone, her notebook and her family pictures. Old, faded, corners curled. Pictures of the past. It also contained her front door keys. Or at least the main key to the front door and another to open her flat – one of twelve in a Victorian building meant for a family. Where twelve rooms had been sublet by a dubious Polish landlord who did nothing all day except count his blessings.

  She held the keys in her hand. Tight. So tight she could feel every tooth on the golden Yale. Twenty-six paces and she would be there. Six little grooves on a key, she counted them, as she did every evening she got home. One, two, three and she was there. The key slid in to the worn lock; she opened the door, pressed the hallway light which worked on a push button timer and walked up the stairs. She got to the front door as the light clicked off and was in and the door closed behind her.

  She put her bag down on the white Melamine kitchen table, turned the small oven on to heat up then went to the bathroom, as she did she walked past the glass tank which contained a small snake.

  “Hello Rufus. How was your day?” She had no idea where she got the name from, but she loved the Western Natal Green Snake. At forty centimetres long it was about half grown. Non-venomous, it looked like a length of green hosepipe and was often found near water in its natural habitat. When agitated it could puff its throat up to reveal an array of bright turquoise. She had tried to get Rufus angry, but so far he had remained calm.

  She spoke to him all the time she was alone in the flat. Which was always. She worked hard – for cash – and never played. Home was where her heart was. Pay the rent, eat as healthily as she could and survive. She had made it to Britain. The land of milk and sometimes honey. But as far as the statistics were concerned, she was a ghost.

  “Time for a shower Rufus.” She stripped off as she walked, folding her clothes and dropping them into a bin liner for the next trip to the launderette. She unclipped her bra, it was a little tight so left deep imprints on her shoulders, then pulled down her knickers and flicked them expertly up and into the air, caught them and then threw them over her shoulder waiting for the satisfying swish as they entered the big black polythene bag.

  “Goal!” She punched the air and made a crowd noise.

  Naked, she turned on the shower then went back to check the oven. She turned, skipped across the very small lounge area, holding her arm across her breasts and pulled the solitary curtain shut. The water would be hot by now.

  She stepped in, closed the rickety glass door and let the heat of the water wash away the day. She shampooed her hair until it announced itself as clean. Then she tipped some shower gel into her hands and washed herself, slowly. It felt good to just stand there in the heat on a cold evening. She began to draw on the condensation using her index finger to create the body of a man, then a woman. She did this every evening. Sometimes the couple would just hold hands. Other times she would make them more intimate. If the drawing didn’t work, she could start again on another part of the glass. One day she would find a man, a friend, more than just a shower glass lover. She hoped that one day she would find the man that she drew, each and every night.

  She ran her hands over her breasts, the warm water running down over them made her feel good. She began to speak quietly. Pretending, as she always did that the man in the delivery team, in the place where she worked, for cash, was in there with her. He was the man of her dreams. The man in the picture in front of her, his image slowly trickling down the glass.

  “Is that nice?”

  “Yes. Wonderful…”

  “Shall I stop?”

  “No. Please don’t. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at work now. Not here in the shower with you…”

  “Touch me like you did last night.”

  And this is how she imagined it would be. Slow. Warm. Gentle.

  Her fingertips traced a path from her neck downwards, across her chest and over the multiple scars, lines that told a tribal story, until she got to the more recent vivid scar, the mark that still hurt if she pushed down onto it. The scar that they had created.

  And then her thoughts turned to another place. As they always did when she let herself relax. They always haunted her waking mind.

  They said it would heal. She would be fine until she needed to visit someone who could make the pain go away and reward her for her trouble. But not until she needed to. And not until she knew that the time was right. And that was soon. Possibly tomorrow.

  She was broke. She had a few pounds to last the week and Rufus needed feeding. Perhaps now was the time to cash herself in?

  She had made the call. The man said he could do the job, but for fou
r times the price she was quoted. What price freedom?

  She knew there was a risk, a back-street butcher in a south London lock up, with tools that she hoped were vaguely sterile. The risks were enormous. The rewards were too.

  She drew another picture on the glass. It was her, her parents and her little brother. Holding hands. Together in Guinea. Before they had been brought to Britain on the enormous ship. To a new life. The drawing wasn’t quite accurate. They hadn’t travelled together, it just looked better that way. She could create what she wanted, there on that lime scaled glass panel.

  Her parents had put her on that ship when she was a young girl, one of a few who had made the journey with the man they called Farin Mala’Ika – The White Angel. She had a story to tell, just like the others.

  Her parents had then followed her years later when the radar wasn’t quite so active, entering Britain illegally but with far less risk. They had given her a brother and for a while things were as good as they could be.

  Now her parents were back in Guinea, they had made some money which allowed them to be more successful than they had ever imagined, relatively poor, yet incredibly lucky too. They celebrated life itself, her good Christian parents and now she felt quite alone since they had left her to visit her grandfather before he died.

  She drew a heart in the steam, wrapped it around her brother. He was all she had in her adopted country right now. He had promised he would help her when they had done what they needed to do to her.

  They had told her she had six diamonds inside her and that if she left them there, told no one, when the time came to remove them she could keep the finest one and hand over the rest. It was how it worked.

  She had visualised that damned thing for years. Washing the blood away and marvelling at its colour and clarity. Her plan was to sell it at the first opportunity. But lately the pressure was building, the word on the street, amongst her tight community was that the ticking clock had stopped.

  It became clear. They wanted them back and soon.

  The Butcher knew where she would get a reasonable amount for it, no questions asked. Then she could maybe get a better home, here in London, for her and her parents, bring them back, perhaps legally, then they could finally make a new start, above board, above the radar.

  Her, her mother and father and her little brother Matthew.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  She rubbed the make-believe figures from the glass as she did every evening. They were her thoughts alone. She turned to wipe the steam from the door and then stepped back in alarm, almost slipping over.

  The face of a man was staring at her. He was familiar. And he was smiling.

  “Oh my God Kwame! You made me jump. Oh my God.”

  She smiled, trying to cover herself up. Then reality hit her. The man from her delivery team, the man she fantasised about every evening was stood in her bathroom, staring at her naked body.

  “How did you get in? Please pass my towel.” This was not how it was supposed to be.

  “I thought you would like me to join you?” He was undressing as he spoke.

  “No. This is not right Kwame.”

  “But I see how you look at me – at work. Tell me to go and I will.” He was still undressing. She looked down at him as he teased his underpants down slightly. He gave her a look that said one thing. For such a shy man he seemed to be so confident now, semi-naked in her small steamed-up bathroom.

  “But Kwame this…this isn’t how I wanted it.”

  “I was listening to you. It seemed like you wanted me exactly like this.” He feigned a frown then smiled again. She adored his smile.

  Why not? You only live once and she had the place to herself. It was about time her neighbour heard her frantic screams of ecstasy – she had to endure it most weekends from her as she entertained half the local male population.

  She opened the glass door, smiling, dripping wet, anticipating what was to happen in the next ten minutes, half an hour. She knew she had all night if she needed it – wanted it.

  It was then that he hit her, hard in the stomach. It was a strange blow. Fast enough that she didn’t see it coming, but also a slow-motion strike, that she watched happen. It went from the left of her stomach to the right, a cutting blow.

  And her stomach opened up. It was as surreal for him as it was for her. He had practised at the Butcher’s place, running a highly honed knife across a carcass.

  ‘When you do it for real Kwame, there will be shock at first – then a lot of blood.’

  The Butcher was right. She was bleeding now and in shock. At first she just stood there, still trying to smile, her hands clutching at her stomach, trying somehow to re-join the hideous wound.

  She saw bright red and cream and darker red and white and more blood, deep fatty tissue too and all of this in her own home with the man she had for so long dreamt about. She was bleeding to death, in her shower, in the home that she had made.

  “Why?” Was all she could ask. Her heart rate raised and her breathing became quicker. Then she saw the other men and began to sink down into the white plastic shower tray, with its years of re-applied sealant and limescale. Her blood filled the tray and was beginning to congeal around the drain.

  “Why Kwame…why?”

  He didn’t say another word, just stepped away from her and handed over the knife to one of his team and then left the bathroom with his clothes, got dressed and went back to the van.

  The eldest of the group was wearing blue surgical gloves, he pulled the woman toward him. She was still alive but unable to react or resist. Now she was a bit-part in a stage show, at best an audience of one. This was no out-of-body experience, she could see exactly what he was doing, plunging his blue latex fingers into the hole in her stomach, pulling flesh apart with his hands until he found what he was looking for.

  He removed the condom from the wound. It had deteriorated somewhat but was still remarkably intact. How her body had retained it for so long was a miracle. That someone in their home country had come up with the idea was more so. A few diamonds did not make a man rich. But half a dozen multiplied by every female that left the port of Kamsar and headed to the United Kingdom was destined to make a few men and one woman disgustingly rich.

  He ran his fingertips over the package. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six little pieces of pressurised carbon that had sat in one of the best safety deposit boxes known to man and now they were heading to one of the most successful women in the world. And hardly anyone had ever heard of her. Except those that feared her.

  He knew not to touch the stones; they needed to reach her just as they were. She liked to see the blood, smell its metallic tang, rub it between her fingers until it became a crimson dust.

  She had promised the teams a diamond each. One, divided by six still made for a very successful journey. Strike fast, cash in, wait, return home to the old country where they had their choice of home, and car, and girl waiting. But in order to get one diamond they had to cash in six women. The eldest saw it as an almost bizarre form of loyalty card system, where for each stone they cashed in they got a stamp and when they had finally reached six they got a small stone that would change their lives. Pure and simple.

  He handed the package to one of his team who dropped it into a clean Ziplock bag and placed it into his jacket pocket, checking twice that it was safe.

  He pushed a new package deep into the gaping hole then pulled her towards him and turned her over, now face down, bent at an awful angle, still trying to breathe. He raised his right hand over his shoulder and waited to feel the knife in his hand once more. He took it and like a surgeon began to cut around the number on her back, between her shoulder blades. Two vertical and two horizontal cuts and one where he sliced underneath the skin to remove the postage stamp sized piece of skin.

  She murmured, it still hurt even though she was minutes from death.

  He handed the knife back which was also dropped into a polythene bag and then placed the
skin flap onto a glass slide and the action was repeated again.

  He stood, stretched out his legs, clicked his knees – they had always popped since he was a kid and the sound fascinated him – then turned her back over so she was sat with her back to the wall, then with his feet pushed her legs back into the shower, reached over and turned it on and waited for it to warm up.

  The steam quickly built up again. He waited a few minutes, watched as the blood continued to flood into the tray as the woman slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

  “There. Nice and warm, just how you like it.” He brushed the hair from her face. She was dead now, nothing to fear.

  He placed his latex finger on the glass door and wrote backwards.

  ‘THREE DOWN.’

  He closed the door and marvelled at his handiwork; each letter was the right way around. When they came to examine the place, as they would at some point, someone might spot it. It was hardly a clue that would enable their capture. And that made him feel powerful. And he enjoyed that feeling immensely.

  He removed the gloves and wrapped them inside each other, put them into the last polythene bag and then stripped off, placing each item of clothing into a larger bin bag before sealing them all together.

  Another team member had laid out a new set of clothes. He took time to get dressed and watched as the shower tray began to flood. Soon the hot water and blood began to spill over the tray and onto the bathroom floor. If there was anyone below they might complain to the landlord – but would he care? As long as he got his money, he was a very happy man.

  The team were obsessive about their forensic footprint. They checked and double checked. They would leave fibres, but not fingerprints, DNA possibly but they didn’t appear on any database, anywhere.

  They walked into her place in a style that was best described as ludicrous, taking deliberate steps on the sides of their feet, leaving only a small impression on the flooring. They had read up about gait analysis and footwear identification – in this respect they were educated.