Angel City (8 page)

‘You can leave the cab here,' he said through my window. ‘The van's round the corner.'

‘Hi, there, Tigger, good to see you,' I said sarcastically. ‘How's Lee?'

‘He's going to be all right,' Tigger replied without looking at me. ‘I'm going to look after him. Come on, we've got to get this shit over to Globe Town.'

‘What? Back over the river?' I fell into step beside him, although Tigger would never be able to say ‘Walk this way,' as no-one else could.

‘Yes. Same place as last time.'

‘Why? Isn't there anywhere around here we can dump it?'

He held out a set of keys as we turned a corner. Twenty yards away was a parked white Transit van.

‘It's got to be Globe Town and I'll make it worth your while, because this could be the last run.'

‘How worth my while?' I asked, pulling on the pair of leather gloves I'd remembered to bring.

‘Double.'

‘Okay. I can be bought.'

I slowed down as we turned off Roman Road and approached the junkyard.

‘Just go in the yard and turn round this time,' Tigger said quietly.

‘What's up?' I was instantly nervous and ready to hit reverse. ‘Does the alarm system work all of a sudden?'

‘No, nothing like that, I've just found a better place. Trust me, Angel. Stay in here and let me do the dirty work. Keep the engine running if you want. Trust me, there's nobody here.'

I eased the van through the half-open gate advertising Hubbard's Yard and swung it round in a circle, killing the lights in the process. I left the engine ticking over.

‘I won't be long,' said Tigger, slithering across the seat. He was wearing a shell suit with purple and orange stripes. It looked like the sort of garment they give you after they've taken away your real clothes and sharp objects and put you in the cell next door to that nice Dr Lecter.

He turned as he opened his door, but I held up a hand to forestall him.

‘If you say “Trust me” one more time, I'm phoning the Samaritans.'

‘Give ‘em my love,' he grinned, jumping out.

‘Yeah, I reckoned you'd have an account with them,' I said to myself.

I switched off the engine and took the keys from the ignition. I had wound down my window by the time Tigger appeared sheepishly with his hand out.

‘Er … the back doors are locked.' He saw the dangling keys. ‘Thanks.'

‘Want a hand, to speed things up?' I offered.

‘No.' He said it quickly; too quickly. ‘I can manage. Don't get out.'

I stayed in the cab, my fingers twitching on the wheel until he had opened the back doors and brought back the keys. Knowing I could at least drive away calmed me down a bit, but not enough. In the wing mirrors I could see Tigger taking two black plastic bags on a trip to somewhere in the darkness of the yard, and once I heard a screech of metal and a crash, followed by a distinct ‘Shite!' as something gave way under him.

He made three trips in all; six bags. Then he appeared at my window again.

‘Got a pen on you?'

‘As a matter of fact, yes,' I said, startled, but handing over a black felt-tip.

‘Don't ask,' he said and winked.

He disappeared back into the yard and was gone for three or four minutes before reappearing in the nearside mirror. As he walked towards the passenger door, I could see him tucking an envelope into the waistband of his trousers. ‘That's it, we're out of here,' he said, piling in.

‘You said something about double the wages.' I held out a hand. ‘I hope that doesn't mean I have to ask you twice.' He sighed and tore open a velcro pocket. ‘Oh ye of little faith,' he said, handing over a fold of notes.

‘That way I'm rarely disappointed.'

Tigger held up his right hand as if he was administering a blessing.

‘I abjure thee, vile spirit and by expelling thee, heal all wounds.'

I started the Transit's engine. ‘Don't throw a wobbler on me now, Tigger. Wait till we're south of the river.'

‘No wobblers.' He drummed a riff on the dashboard. ‘Job's done, time to take a break. I'm going to have a monster weekend.'

‘Good for you.' I was concentrating on my mirror looking for rogue police cars or some of the local tribesmen. It wasn't a good area to be cruising after midnight. Even the pit bulls went round in pairs.

‘You can drop me at the Ritz,' Tigger said dreamily.

‘Sure.' I let him see me eyeing his shell suit. ‘Formal dress tonight, is it?'

‘Now, now, you old tart, don't knock it till you've tried it.'

I checked the rearview again and reckoned we were free and clear.

‘I know I'm going to regret this, but tried what?'

‘The Friday night throw-outs from the kitchens. Once the rich people have gone, the street people get to lick the plates.'

‘Tigger, you've just given me two hundred notes, so somewhere about your unwashed little person, you've got at least the same if not more. You can afford a square meal, for Christ's sake.'

‘That's not the point, Angel. You get to meet some interesting street people. Lots of kids from up north, middle-class runaways, druggies, winos – all human lowlife is there. And then, of course, there are the rich punters looking to pick up a bit of lowlife to satisfy their appetites.'

I said nothing.

‘They're the best of all, because they know they have to pay for their pleasure. Even if it's not cash on the spot, they pay eventually. And they know they have to, that's the beauty of it. They feel so guilty about their appetites …'

‘Tigger, I really don't want to know this,' I sighed.

‘That's what it's all about, Angel. Appetites. Satisfy your appetites as soon as you can. Find out what you like, have your fill, then move on. If you don't, you'll miss out and regret it forever, or you'll try later in life and your appetites will betray you.'

‘Tigger, that's bullshit.'

‘Well, excuse me, Mr Conformity. Pardon me if my lifestyle offends, but from where I'm sitting, the only thing that's different between us is that I'm still young enough to be taking my chances and enjoying them.'

I checked the mirrors again and dropped down a gear. ‘There are other differences. Important ones.'

‘Such as?' he sneered.

‘Like I'm the one driving, and you're not wearing a seat belt.'

 

We left the van roughly where we'd picked it up and reclaimed Armstrong.

Tigger still wanted to go to the Ritz even though Big Ben showed it was 2.00 am as we recrossed the river.

I dropped him on Piccadilly near Green Park tube station. ‘I can't tempt you, then?' he beamed as he climbed out of Armstrong on the driver's side.

‘No way.'

I should have said ‘Take care' or something similar but I didn't. Over towards Berkeley Square, a car alarm went off, and when I looked again, Piccadilly was empty and Tigger had disappeared.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Angel?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Are you still busy?' Fenella's pleading was getting close to a whine by now.

‘You know I'm busy every Sunday afternoon, Fenella.' In this case, reading a second-hand Sunday newspaper someone had left down the pub at lunchtime.

‘I've finished the washing up,' she said from the doorway of the kitchenette. ‘And I've cleaned all the surfaces and decrusted Springsteen's dish.'

That was odd. I hadn't heard her using a flame-thrower.

‘If you move the meat, I'll clean out the fridge for you.'

She was desperate and I couldn't stand it any more. ‘Okay,' I said, folding the newspaper and taking my socks off the coffee table, ‘what do you want?'

‘Just some advice, really.'

She came into the room and sat primly on the chair farthest from me.

‘Okay, the doctor is in and the meter running. Tell me where it hurts.'

She looked at me blankly, shook her head slightly and took a deep breath.

‘Do you need a licence to drive a caravan?'

It was my turn to ring up the ‘Vacant' sign. ‘Er ... you mean a camper?'

‘No, a caravan, a proper caravan. You know, a gypsy caravan – a Romany caravan – sort of upside-down horseshoe shape with a chimney with a triangle on top and a split door you can lean over and–'

‘Little wooden steps at the back,' I offered without enthusiasm.

‘That's it!' she squealed. ‘And my ... a little pony to pull it, with a long mane and white socks, which we could ride at the weekends.'

‘You and Lisabeth, huh?'

She nodded, her face flushed.

‘You're gonna need a bigger horse. Maybe a Shire or a Suffolk Punch.' Her face said she ought to be taking this in, maybe making notes.

‘This is your latest, is it? Going native and joining the New Age travellers in the West Country.'

‘That's right, we need a change of life, not just lifestyle.'

I wondered where she'd read that.

‘I never knew you were into drugs and trespassing and scrounging social security hand-outs. I would have said that went against everything the Binkworthy family stood for.'

Fenella stood up and stamped a foot. I hoped it wasn't a signal to Lisabeth in the flat below.

‘Mr Angel, you are the last person I would have expected to hear that from. Just because the newspapers say things like that doesn't mean it's true. I'm talking about free spirits who can't and won't be tied down by an uncaring, materialistic society. I thought you would have understood.'

‘Okay, calm down. Does Lisabeth know about this?'

‘No, not yet.' She sat down again and licked her fingers before rubbing cat hair off her trousers. ‘It was going to be a surprise.'

Knowing Lisabeth's aversion to Springsteen, the idea of her living with anything bigger, especially something that could produce manure on a commercial scale, would certainly be a surprise.

‘You're really set on moving out, aren't you?'

‘Yes, we are. London is bad for the inner self. Doogie and Miranda are moving north, we're going west.'

‘Doogie's going to work for some rich capitalists in Scotland and will probably start a salmon rustling business on the side. There's a difference.'

‘Well, we're set on it because we want to find ourselves before the millennium.'

She fingered something hanging around her throat. It looked like a velvet spell-pouch, but knowing how sensitive her skin was, it probably contained dried parsley or basil from Sainsbury's.

‘Fine, whatever you say. I'm convinced I'm going to be the only one left in London throwing a New Year's Eve party in 1999.'

‘That won't worry us,' Fenella said primly. ‘Lisabeth hates parties.'

‘I didn't know she liked horses.'

‘She will, she's just not experienced them before.'

Nor they her.

‘Then you're on your own, kid, but I think you do need a licence,' I lied, neither knowing nor caring if you did or not.

‘You mean a driving test?'

‘That's the way most people get them. But if you get one, you might as well get a car or a van or a camper. That might go down better with Lisabeth.'

Her face brightened at that.

‘You're right. She'd like it if I could drive her around.' Then came the frown. ‘But you have to have lessons, don't you?'

‘Lots.'

She thought about this.

‘Would you teach me?'

‘Er ... I ... it's never ...'

‘I'd pay. Whatever the going rate is.'

Was I that desperate?

‘I don't know what the hourly rate is, but I'll find out – leave that to me.'

‘And Lisabeth mustn't know,' she whispered.

‘That could be difficult, and I don't know how I could deceive her like that. It wouldn't be right.' It was my turn to act the primp.

Fenella's eyes lit up with an idea.

‘If you wanted things doing round the flat, you know, the washing-up and cleaning and things, I'd help out when she wasn't around.'

‘Let me think about it,' I said, trying to figure out where to get a car. There was no way I was trusting her with Armstrong.

‘I won't do baths, though.'

‘What?' I said vaguely, trying to work out how long I could spin this out.