In Loco Parentis (13 page)

There's a pool of blood growing like a treacle spill. I need to get right out of there.

And it all changes.

Two lovers walk around the corner. She's looking deep into his eyes when I see them.

Her high heels are clacking and her perfume smells of class.

She's the kind of girl only money can get, and he's got money all right. Everything about him's clean, from the finger-nails, to the shave to the collar of his shirt.

They stop a yard or so from the body that's blocking the pavement.

three-minute-hero

Poor bloke's one of those ‘tough on the causes of crime' types, the kind of ‘have-a-go-hero' the papers talk about. He peels his girl's arm from round him and heads over to me.

She tries to stop him. Reaches out, but her feet are rooted to the spot and she's too late. “He might be dangerous,” she says. There's no scream, just calm.

“What the hell's going on here?” he says as he closes in. He speaks with the authority of wealth and of the deep-voiced, as if he's talking to a naughty employee.

There's not time to think. His legs are long. He's a tall man who probably works out every day. Might even be into martial arts.

The bar swings again. I hear the air shift out of its way. The gentleman doesn't follow suit. Instead, he greets the bar with his face.

His head turns to the side.

Teeth spill out of his mouth and fly across the road. His body crumples like he's made of straw.

Behind him his girl puts her hands over her mouth. The red of her nails exactly matches the colour of her lips.

She watches her beau hit the floor. Sees his head bounce from the pavement same as me, like we're at the same movie show.

It's the last I take in.

I've turned.

My legs are pumping, running like they've never run before.

I'm away past the football pitch, across four lanes of traffic and pushing my way through the crowd outside the Swiss Cottage like a crazy marathon runner, eyes for the path ahead only.

By the time my lungs pack up, I'm heading out to Kilburn.

I turn down a quiet street, fall against some railings and look at the lock I've been carrying like a relay baton.

The stains on the end of the metal prongs remind me that everything's sorted. Don's dad will never be teaching him his life lessons ever again.

Sleepless In N7

“You're white as a sheet, man,” Wolf say s when I finally get home.

It's 2 in the morning.

I sit down and tell him what's gone on. He understands. Sits through the whole story without judging.

The steering lock ended up at the bottom of a skip just off the Kilburn High Road under piles of brick and plaster board.

Once that had been taken care of, I headed for the tube. Got off to collect the car. Didn't want anyone taking my number – the link between me and the victims would be all too obvious.

As I stepped up the escalator on the way out of Swiss Cottage station, my eyes were drawn away from the ads for shows and against abortions to the police line checking everyone going in.

Good job I was going the other way.

I walked quickly to build up some body heat, past the Freud clinic and across to where I'd left the car.

Some bugger had robbed it.

On the pavement where my car should have been, cubes of glass like enormous sugar crystals catching the orange light from the street-lamp.

And so I walked home.

“Maybe you shouldn't have used the steering lock as a weapon?” Wolf says as he pours the milk into my tea.

“That'll teach me.”

We both laugh. I feel some release.

“She phoned.”

“What?” It takes a second to realise who he's talking about.

“Emma.”

It's like he's revealing a story in a series of cliff-hangers. “Well?”

“Well what?” I definitely preferred it before he got onto his new medication.

“Was there a message?”

“She loves you,” he says, “And you know that can't be bad.” Then he sings the rest of the song in the style of Louis Armstrong.

early morning call

I'm dreaming about Preston. Being a kid again. Mum's putting out the washing and the sun's bright.

There's a ball at my feet. I kick it against the wall, hear the high pitched ring of its bounce and kick it again.

The phone goes inside the house. Mum just carries on pegging.

I go over to tell her, start pulling at her skirt.

She tells me to go and answer it.

I run in. Get to the phone and play with the curly wire. Before I get it I know who it is. I have the power to see to the other end of the line. Dr India's there at his desk, a scowl on his face, his fingers drumming at the file that lies before him. It's my file. Seems it might be better not to answer, but the ringing persists.

Waking up, the phone's still ringing. This time it's the one beside my bed.

God knows what time it is, but being woken on this particular night is all I need seeing as I didn't get to bed until past 3.

Why the hell would Dr India be phoning me in the middle of the night?

I pick up. Put the handset to my ear.

“Hello,” I say, aware that it sounds like I'm about to slit my throat.

Nobody answers.

There's a sound at the end. Running water, I think. And whispers.

I hear a toilet flush, a door close and a man's voice. “Put the phone down.”

The line goes dead.

Have they found me already? Was it the girl with the nails and the lips letting me know?

I dial 1471 for the number.

It's withheld.

Probably Emma. Emma trying to let me know it's OK. Emma doing what she can to soothe my fevered brow.

Except the soothing lasts only till I remember what I've done.

Guilt expands in my belly like couscous. It hurts. A physical pain that's dull and intense at the same time. I hold my gut and rock, the motion helping, just not enough.

I picture the man's teeth flying from his mouth. The thump of the bar.

A groan escapes my mouth. It's like it came from somewhere else.

I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Feel my bladder needing relief. I go to pee and know that there's no more sleep coming my way tonight.

bad news

Sal looks worried as I go into the smoking room.

“Alistair wants to see you. Said it was important.” She's clutching her handbag like she's expecting someone to try and mug her.

“Any ideas?”

“Didn't say.”

I need a smoke to calm my nerves. Soon as I light it I know it's a mistake. I put it out. The only thing I've achieved is to make myself stink of fags.

Walking up the steps, I feel like I'm ninety-nine years old. If it's what ageing is like, I don't want any part of it.

Alistair's got company. I hear their voices but not what they're saying.

I turn the corner and see a man in uniform standing in the corner. His arms are folded and, with his hat on, he practically touches the ceiling. I'd jump out of my skin if could summon the energy.

Looks like the game's up. At least they'll give me peace when they're done. Get myself some sleep. I'll tell them everything. No point pretending.

Alistair's in his usual spot.

In front of him, there's a middle-aged woman half sitting, half standing, one buttock on the edge of his desk. Her skirt's in the style of a tent and her enormous calves look to be at home there. It's probably the first time I've seen a lady's legs in tights and not felt some urge or other. Like her body, her face has the effect of a cold shower on me. It's exactly what I need.

“Joe, sit down,” Alistair tells me and gestures to my usual seat in front of him.

He looks up. “This is detective Moira Scott.” He looks to the corner. “And this is Constable Thin.”

“James,” says Thin.

“Hi,” is the best I can think of.

“Bad news, I'm afraid.” There's a grey hue to Alistair's face – I hate to think what mine looks like. “Don's father was killed last night.”

“Murdered,” Moira Scott says. She has nice teeth.

“And Don's not going to be in for the rest of the week.”

“He'll be with Social Work until they find him a foster-home,” Moira tells me. “We're hoping he'll find a place near here. Keep him in the catchment.”

“Absolutely,” I nod. “What the boy needs is consistency at a time like this.”

“And don't worry, Joe. He'll be better off this way.”

James clears his throat and speaks. “If it was just about Mr Coll, we'd probably be cheering the guy who did it on.”

“But it's not,” Moira says.

“Silly bugger had to take out a TV presenter, didn't he?” James shakes his head. “Which means we can't leave a single stone unturned.”

“Or a single sheet of paper blank.” Moira steps away from the desk. “We wanted to tell you ourselves. If you hear anything on the grapevine, give us a call, eh?”

She passes over her card and winks. I don't know how she's done it, but for that moment she's completely beautiful and I want her.

I watch her backside swing as she gets to the steps. She only just fits. The moment of wanting fades.

PC Thin follows her down. Stoops to avoid knocking his helmet off.

My head finds rest in my hands.

“It must be tough on you,” Alistair says.

He walks round his desk and puts his arm around me, not knowing the half of it.

evening news

The lift's broken at Hampstead Tube.

I'd count the steps if I could be bothered.

Smells like tar and body odour all the way down. I step in time with the rest. There are commuters who've finished their days and earned twice as much as me and kids from the private school where they've had to pay my hourly rate just to get into the classes.

I don't mean to resent them, those kids in the striped jackets and ties. It's just not fair the way it works. The way they're half-way up the ladder without really lifting a finger.

At least I got myself a paper.

Man in the stall outside the station passed it over, the fingers that poked through his fingerless gloves covered in newsprint. Even before I took it he was off with his sales pitch. “Standard. Evenin' Santa,” like he's talking in some kind of code.

I made the headline. ‘STARS IN HIS EYES' and the by-line ‘Hero Fights For Life'.

As I walk down I press the paper between my elbow and my chest. It's as if I can keep it all to myself. Stop it from leaking out to the world.

The train pulls in as I get to the platform. I step in through the sliding doors without breaking stride.

It's one of the old ones, this. The red and blue check of the seats invite me to sit, so I do.

The man opposite watches me settle. Chews his gum and looks me up and down. Gives me the creeps. I stare back, straight through his pebble glasses and keep up my stare till he submits and puts his nose back in his book.

If he looks at me again I'm saying something.

Unfolding the paper, I try to look casual. Read the story. They've got it all wrong. I look over at the girl at the end with the same news. Want to tell her it's nonsense. Let her know how it really played out.

'“Rupert stepped in without a care,” it says. “Of course he knew he was at risk but he's the kind of man who helps if he can,” said Theresa, 23 year old model and partner of the celebrity presenter. “He's my have-a-go hero.”'

No way she said that. Who in their right mind...

“Police are looking for,” and I look across at the man, hoping he'll give me an excuse to stop reading, but I reckon he got the message. “A man of 30 years old,” (damn), “5 foot 8,” (Jesus), “chunky,” (thanks), “and of mixed race” (huh?).

I laugh out loud. Draw the attention of everyone in the carriage.

The train's pulling in to the station. Chalk Farm. One stop early, I get off the train with a big smile spreading across my face.

result

Wolf gives me a bear-hug when I get home.

He puts me down.

The Evening Standard is spread on the table.

“Result,” he says and we slap hands and lock our thumbs together.

“Result,” I agree, and let him hug me all over again.

the girl and the long distance lorry driver

The doorbell rings. Wakes me.

I sit up straight and alert.

There it goes again.

If Wolf's forgotten his bloody keys again, he's moving out. Don't care if he has to live in a box under the Embankment.

It rings a third time. “I'm bloody coming.”

Dressing gown on, I put the door on the latch and see Emma through the glass. Emma and someone else. Think about going back and tooling up, but see her smile.

When I open the door she's radiant as the sun herself and dressed for summer even though it's freezing.

“Hello stranger,” she says. She pushes past me, swings her hips as best as she can and goes into my flat. “This is the lovely Gary. Come in, Gary.”

“Come in,” I tell him.

“Pleased to meet you.” Irish. Northern. Good looking fellow with a twinkle in his eye.

We all go through to the kitchen. She puts the kettle and lights a cigarette.

“Want one, Gary?” she asks him.

“Go on.”

She passes him one, then to me and lights us up, him first.

“Gary's my hero, aren't you Gary?”

Poor bloke's almost as out of the picture as I am.

“Picked me up on the Finchley Road.” I guess that could explain the short skirt and the tight fitting top. I think her breasts have shrunk since I last saw her. Never mind. Her energy and the bounce of her hair make me want her.

Gary just smiles. He's looking like the cat who's got the fish, the cream and the rubber mouse all at once.

Emma passes over the tea. Spills enough to bathe a rat.