The Touch of Innocents (30 page)

‘I think there may have been some misunderstanding,’ Daniel said softly. Nothing in the coffee shop moved.

‘No misunderstanding. You wanna play the big boys’ game, you need to learn the rules. Which are these. First time I see you round here, you get a free taster, like an ice cream parlour.’ The point of the blade pressed still more firmly into her cheek beside the base of her nose; she tried to move away but her back was against the wall, nowhere to go. She felt the point pierce the skin and as the skin gave way a rivulet of fresh blood crawled its way down over her lip.

‘For God’s sake, Mo, you crazy bastard. Not in my place!’

‘Just a taste of things to come, pretty girl. Next time I’m gonna stop being a gentleman and start playing Australian rules. Understand?’

‘You make your point very well,’ she whispered.

‘Enough, Mo,’ the owner pleaded. ‘We can’t do with trouble in here.’

‘No drama. Just wanna make sure they understand.’

But the drama had been all too intense, too captivating. It had grabbed the attention of everyone in the shop, including the look-out at the door. He had been slow, hadn’t seen them coming, driving without lights the wrong way up the short one-way road leading from the High Street. Before anyone had a chance to move, they were outnumbered two-to-one. A fight broke out in one corner. Screams. Stools were overturned, cups smashed, curses hurled. The owner cowered on the floor while his wife screamed abuse, first at the world, then at the customers and, finally and most ferociously, at her husband. Distracted from Izzy, the Australian turned with the
knife in his hand but was felled with a vicious kick to his balls. A heavily booted foot stamped on the hand which still held the knife, leaving Mo writhing, retching, unsure which part of his body to clutch with his one remaining good hand.

Then they turned to Izzy and Daniel. She was pinned to the wall as he was lifted bodily, turned and spread-eagled across the counter, knocking the breath from his body. Only when he bent his neck and saw his assailant produce a pair of handcuffs did it begin to make sense.

‘We’re journalists!’ he moaned, trying to manipulate his tongue, which he’d bitten. ‘ID’s in my wallet. Back pocket.’

They held him pinioned, but displayed no more aggressive intent while they searched for his wallet and checked twice that he was not concealing anything resembling a weapon. A tray of cutlery that sat on the counter with its piles of bent and soap-stained knives, forks and teaspoons was swept to the floor, out of harm’s reach. The Christmas begging bowl went with it.

‘It’s here, Sarge,’ one of his assailants acknowledged, flicking through his wallet. ‘Daniel Blackheart.
Wessex Chronicle
.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Sarge snapped suspiciously, but reluctantly nodded that Daniel should be allowed to rise.

‘And the lady, too,’ Daniel added, sucking air back into his lungs.

‘Doesn’t look like a journalist. Or a lady,’ Sarge muttered, inspecting Izzy.

‘I hope I look like a tart,’ she responded. ‘That was my cover, which you’ve just blown.’

‘Didn’t look as if you had much cover left when we came in, miss,’ Sarge said, nodding at the prone
figure of Mo. ‘Here, better clean yourself up.’ He produced a handkerchief.

‘Thanks. You got here quickly.’

‘Not really,’ Sarge responded. ‘This is a Drugs Squad raid, planned for about three months. Had no idea we’d find a damsel in distress.’

‘We cynical members of the media aren’t supposed to believe in coincidence.’

‘Believe it. If we’d known these bastards were giving members of the media a hard time, after the treatment we normally get at the hands of the press we might have been tempted to leave it for another three months.’

‘OK, I believe in coincidence.’ She smiled unsteadily, still shaken. She liked Sarge. She wanted to throw her arms around him and smother him in kisses. Or burst into tears. So she smiled.

‘And I’ll need to know who you are, miss. I’ll need ID. And a statement.’

The smile faded. The police. British authorities. Her airport subterfuge blown.

‘Is this your bag, miss?’ One of the policemen picked up her bag from the floor.

‘Thank you, Officer. Let me get you that ID.’

She hoped it didn’t seem as if she were snatching back her bag in too much haste. She’d only just remembered what it contained. But now she had no choice. ‘Isadora Dean. I’m the foreign correspondent for WCN in Washington.’

‘Yeah, I think I recognize you,’ another policeman joined in. ‘I’ve got cable, you know,’ he added enthusiastically.

‘Makes up for his lack of a social life,’ Sarge derided.

He took the passport she offered.

‘Wait here while we check things out, if you don’t
mind, Miss Dean. Then one of my men will take a statement.’

‘Of course, Sergeant. But …’ – she dabbed at the wound on her face – ‘do you think we could have a little fresh air. It’s not every day I dress as a tart and get mugged in a drug den.’

‘Sure. Collins will look after you.’

What Sarge meant, of course, was that Collins would keep a close eye on them until the matter of their presence amidst the dealers and pimps was sorted out. They perched on the bonnet of a squad car, ignoring the damp December wind, while Collins sat in the driver’s seat, door ajar.

‘Devereux’s going to hear about this, Daniel,’ she said quietly.

‘How so? He thinks you’ve flown.’

‘Think. What would you have done in his shoes, with his contacts? Made sure as sunrise that if ever I came back into the country, if my name appeared on anyone’s computer, if I used a credit card at Tesco’s, he or his tame inspector would learn about it. And fast.’ She bit her lip. ‘He’ll know we’re here. In London. And he’ll know why. He’ll get to Paulette before we do.’

‘We’ve got to get away from here,’ he agreed.

‘They take one look in my bag and it’s all over. They’re never going to let us go.’

‘What’s with your bag?’

‘Apart from a couple of thousand pounds in cash which I can’t account for? Only my soiled underwear wrapped around the private address and unlisted telephone number of the Secretary of State for Defence. Try explaining that lot away.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not half as sorry as you’re going to be in about a
minute, as soon as they finish checking my name on their computers.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This isn’t quite how I planned to break it to you, Izzy, but you’ve got to know.’ Even in the darkness of a winter’s night and with the street lights draining all colour, she could see the bruising. ‘I’m an addict. Been clean for almost a year, but I’ve got a record with these guys which will send sparks through their computer. I told you, there are a million cracks in this old Humpty.’

She stood silent, stunned. Then a breath. ‘Damn it, I should have guessed. You knew altogether too much about this scene. About Paulette.’

‘Disappointed?’

‘Only in me, Daniel. I should have asked. Should have known more about you.’

‘I am clean, Izzy. Working my way back. I’m going to be OK.’

‘Problems?’

‘Of course. Especially since I met you.’ And she knew he meant it. ‘Getting stuck emotionally in a one-way street isn’t the greatest thing for a recovering addict. Everything starts hurting again. The Devil sitting on your shoulder. You learn to take it one day at a time.’

‘And you brought me to this place, knowing what we’d find?’

‘I had a pretty good idea about the coffee shop. Less sure how I’d do. Bit like a chain smoker taking a bath in petrol. I did all right, though, didn’t I?’ He looked a hundred years old. She hoped it was only the street light.

‘And you did all this for me?’

‘No, not just for you. For me, too. To test myself. To give me something to believe in again. You hide
from drugs because they are stronger than you are. You loathe yourself, loathe your own weakness. Then there comes a time when you feel you might just be able to stand up to it, not to run away any more, when you have something to believe in which is stronger even than drugs.’ He ran a weary hand through his hair. ‘It’s been a long time since I felt anything other than disgust for myself. But tonight … I reckon I did fine.’

‘You made only one mistake, Daniel.’

‘What was that?’

‘About the one-way street.’

And she took him in her arms and kissed him in a way she thought she’d almost forgotten.

It was while they stood embracing that the boys loaded Mo into the van, and he didn’t want to go, really didn’t want to go with these guys who’d crushed his balls and his fingers, and he kicked out hard and savagely. One officer went down clutching his kneecap and Collins thought he’d go and help. Daniel saw.

‘We really ought to get out of here,’ he whispered.

‘Not playing hard to get, are you?’

‘Izzy, I think we should both be playing hard to get.’

And they had burrowed into the Christmas crowds of Kensington High Street even before Collins knew they were gone.

When they had finished running they walked, grateful for the fresh air and the anonymity of darkened streets, two miles, directly north, ignoring the drizzle that floated in the air and made the pavements shimmer and their feet damp.

They both felt exhausted, drained by their collision with the forces of law and lawlessness, yet they
hurried on, drawn inexorably forward by what might lie ahead, pursued by what they had left behind. The pretence had vanished, their identities discovered and Devereux would soon hear, might already have heard. They knew they had little time left.

There were five drinking establishments along Endeavour Road, four pubs and a low-life wine bar. They found what they were looking for in the fourth, beyond the graffiti and the dog crap and the primary school; the Battle of Trafalgar, a gloomy Victorian edifice with dark panelled walls and wrought-iron supports around the bar, whose original ornate mouldings were all but hidden beneath oppressive generations of paint. Much of the miserable interior lighting came from the bank of slot machines and video games which obstructed the entrance to the toilets, and a television that flickered above the bar – the type of pub where the licensee chose not to see and the customers not to be seen.

‘Jesus, what a dump,’ she exclaimed. ‘Looks like they never got round to cleaning up after the Battle. You sure you guys won it?’

‘The
English
won the battle,’ he corrected, a trifle testily. ‘I can only conclude that the French died laughing when they saw that Lord Nelson had a blind eye and his rifle sleeve tucked into his waistcoat.’

‘Not much to laugh about in here. What do we do?’

‘You sit down and look around while I buy us both a drink, like any good pimp.’

She caught a glance of herself in a mirror and gasped – she looked appalling. The eyes drooped through lack of sleep, her hair had frizzled in the damp evening air, her face was pale and the make-up stood out in all its hideousness. The wound on her
cheek had dried, leaving an angry red weal. She had forgotten she was supposed to be a tart; she looked every inch the part.

He returned with a Coke and glass of putrid white wine; his hand was trembling to the point that the drinks all but spilled.

‘You all right?’ she enquired anxiously.

‘Brilliant.’ He sat down heavily. ‘They tried to peddle me some dope while I was waiting at the bar. Just like old times. And I wanted to say yes, Izzy.’ As he tried to drink his Coke spilled down the side of the glass and dribbled onto the grimy table. ‘There’s a voice inside me telling me, screaming at me, that it’s all right. That just a little won’t hurt. That I can handle it, no problem. It was there in his hand, wrapped in a little twist of paper. And I wanted it so bad.’ He banged his glass down before it slipped from his shaking fingers.

‘I thought you said you were over it.’

‘You never get over it, Izzy. It’s not like the bloody measles. It’s there the whole time, offering you an easy way out of your problems, like climbing into a suit of armour to protect yourself against the rest of the rotten world. Except you discover you’ve climbed into a coffin. I can’t go back to that again, Izzy, it’ll kill me next time.’

‘Then let me help.’

He relaxed a little. ‘You already have. You’ve given me something stronger than drugs. Just make sure you don’t turn your back on me.’

‘Never.’

She reached to kiss him but he moved away. ‘Izzy, a pimp’s not supposed to go round drooling over his hooker. It’s bad form.’ He managed a smile. ‘I’ll take a rain check.’

‘Payment on demand. With interest.’

And he was better; the Devil moved from his shoulder.

They looked around the crowded pub, examining through the smoky atmosphere those who had begun to settle in for the long night ahead. There were old-timers and past-timers, occupying the stools and chairs they had sat on most nights for a lifetime, who could remember the Trafalgar in more glorious days when brassware had gleamed and pumps had been primed and the pub had appeared less of a war casualty.

Also there was another crowd, younger, that had a uniform all to itself. T-shirts that protested and gaudily coloured trousers that screamed, dreadlocks and bleached hair that appeared torn rather than cropped, all clothes casual and crumpled and much tattered, swaddled around bodies often painfully thin. Rings and chains seemed to be the fashion, rings that hung from ears, on fingers, through noses and several through lips, and chains which hung from these rings. Everything to excess. It was embellishment become defilement, a protest, like self-immolation. These kids didn’t like the world; even less did they seem to like themselves.