Just Another Angel (18 page)

‘Hi ... er ... Angel,' he said fuzzily. ‘Is there a gig on?'

‘No, it's not work, old son, I've come to crash on your floor for a couple of nights.'

‘Fair enough. Come in.'

He led me down the hallway and into the communal kitchen.

‘Just having a cook-up,' he sniffed, reaching for a pot bubbling on the gas stove. Trippy constantly snuffled; a bad case of druggie pneumonia, as it's known on the street. Judging by what he was cooking, his sense of smell had gone as well. ‘Are you in for a bite?'

I hadn't eaten and was quite peckish.

‘No, thanks, I was going to suggest we zip out for a curry.'

‘This is curry,' he said, hurt. ‘Tricky fella, Johnny Curry.'

He sipped some from a wooden spoon and stained part of his wispy beard a bright orange. Then he turned the gas off and poured the contents of the pan into the big metal bin that seems to be compulsory in vegetarian kitchens and that always contains enough mushy peas to drown a Rugby League team.

‘Taj Mahal or Jewel in the Crown?'

‘Is there a difference?'

‘The Jewel does Kingfisher lager.'

‘Say no more.'

Trippy didn't ask any nasty questions. He didn't ask any questions, full stop. That's why I find Trippy refreshing, as long as I'm upwind. But after the cauliflower curry, a couple of pounds of onion rings and six bottles of Kingfisher, I told him that I needed a place to stay out of sight for a few days.

That was fine by him as long as I didn't mind sleeping on the floor. I said I didn't, and also, no, I was not short of cash – or at least not short enough to get involved in Trippy's own line of import/export.

Trippy was not really interested in my financial situation; he was just checking that I was paying for dinner. I did so, and I was the one who bought the half-bottle of brandy at the off-licence on the way back.

Well, Trippy said he slept better after a nightcap. I could see why. During the night, three people came into his room from various parts of the squat – or maybe off the street – looking to score. Only two of them fell over me in the sleeping-bag.

 

The next day started better than it should have.

My aching back woke me around 7.30, but that gave me plenty of time to use the communal bathroom and kitchen. I needn't have worried. I think the next person in the house to leave their pit made it just in time for
Play School
.

There was a local Patels open and doing good business at the end of the street, and I stocked up on orange juice, a couple of meat pies and a packet of chocolate biscuits. These would be my iron rations for a hard day's cruising the streets in Armstrong.

I didn't know where Bill Stubbly lived, but I did know his routine, and he seemed a far better bet than approaching Nevil direct. I mean, he was about 20 years older, two feet shorter and ten stone lighter than Nevil. That made him just about my size.

However odd Stubbly's behaviour had been just lately, I was relying on his basic Northern canniness to keep to some vestige of normalcy when it came to money. Thursdays had always been bank day for Bill. It had been a topic of some concern, in the days when I worked fairly regularly at the Mimosa, that Stubbly always preferred to walk through Chinatown to the Piccadilly Circus Barclays, as even on a Thursday morning he could have got mugged. Not that we worried about that
per se
,
but he could have been carrying our wages.

I parked Armstrong in Golden Square, which is known as On Golden Pond to those who work in the posh offices there, and cut through Brewer Street. There were some early tourists about, and they were easy to spot. They hit Laura Ashley's first thing and then see the signs pointing to Carnaby Street (yes, folks, the ‘60s, like head lice, are coming back) as if it was an ancient monument. I suppose it is, from what I've read about it.

Stubbly was more or less on cue. I was window-shopping across the road at Tower Records (good selection, but top price) when I saw him in the reflection. When I was sure he was alone, I followed him into the bank, and while he queued, I read a leaflet to see if I qualified for a home mortgage. (I didn't.)

By the time he took to do his business, the bank's video cameras must have had me down as a fairly suspicious character, and I was happy to stop fidgeting when he finally turned away from the cashier and headed for the door. He was stuffing a thick wad of notes into his inside jacket pocket as he did so, and I wondered briefly why Stubbly wanted all those French francs; but then, that wasn't any of my business, was it?

‘Hello, William, old son,' I said cheerily.

‘Bloody Nora,' he spluttered, slapping a hand to his wallet. ‘Don't creep up on people like that, specially not in a bank, for Christ's sake.'

I held the door for him on to the street.

‘You're getting too set in your ways, you know. That could be dangerous at your age.'

‘From what I hear, it could be dangerous being your age,' he said shiftily, avoiding my eye.

‘And just what do you mean by that?' I asked, stepping sideways to avoid a brace of female traffic wardens and smiling my best smile as a talisman in case they should visit Golden Square. It never does any good, but what the hell else works with them?

Stubbly paused for a moment, then rocked forward on his heels and prodded me gently in the chest with a forefinger.

‘Just for once, for p'raps the only time in your life, take a bit of advice from your elders and betters.' I waited with bated breath. ‘Get lost.'

‘Get lost? You mean piss off, don't you? I've told you about reading the
Sun
. You really must improve your vocabulary.'

Stubbly shook his head and started walking towards Brewer Street.

‘Can you not take just one single thing seriously?'

‘Bill, I'll try,' I pleaded, ‘but I have to know what the fuck is going on.'

He stopped again, and we had to flatten ourselves against a wall as a Post Office van mounted the pavement to avoid an illegally parked British Telecom van.

‘Just what do you think is going on?'

‘I honestly don't know, Bill. I'm being hassled by a gorilla called Nevil – somebody I've never even met. And all I know is he's getting literally close to home and he works for you, if you include disabling your barmen in the conditions of employment, that is.'

He looked at me and chewed his bottom lip as if searching for a remnant of breakfast.

‘Just go and lose yerself for a week, son. Honestly, it'll be the best for all concerned in the long run. Especially you, young Angel. Just go away for a week – two at the most.'

And then he started to walk away, leaving me staring at a bare wall. I did a hop, skip and a bit of a jump to get in front of him and put a hand against his chest. Stubbly isn't a big man, and he's unfit and much older than me, but violence isn't my scene. Unless the odds are really in my favour – and I mean hugely so. (An attack from behind in an unlit alley with no witnesses and an Uzi is my idea of a fair fight.)

‘Hey, hey, not so fast, Bill. We're talking serious grievous bodily here, maybe loss of life and limb. Maybe mine. I'm interested; you might even say morbidly fascinated. What have I done to deserve it, I ask?'

He made a half-hearted attempt to brush away my hand. ‘I don't know what you're on about. I don't want to know. I don't want to see you and, for your sake, don't be seen with me.' He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

‘William … William … Come on, loosen up. Why shouldn't I be seen talking to an old mate, eh?'

‘Because I'm not frightened of you, my lad, but I'm scared shitless of Nevil. And if he asks me if I've seen you, I'll tell him as fast as I can. You can be sure of that.'

It was nice in an uncertain world to be able to rely on one thing. Stubbly would never need 30 pieces of silver; he'd take a cheque.

‘Just tell me why he's after me, Bill, that's all.' I think I managed to keep the shakes out of my voice.

‘I dunno,' he said quickly, ‘and that's straight. I really don't.'

‘What about Kenny, then? What had he done?'

‘Kenny didn't do nothing. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, like I am now, so just piss off out of it, will you? Leave me be.'

I didn't.

‘No way, José.' I put both hands up this time. ‘There's a lot of bad vibes about – both you and at the club.'

‘Whaddayoumean? Nothing wrong with the club.'

‘Oh, come on, William, you're not exactly doing gangbusters business, are you?'

‘I've got problems with the licence,' he said, like he'd rehearsed it. ‘So I thought it best to lie low for a while; keep the nose clean by cutting out the rowdies. That's all.'

I didn't like being called a rowdie, but then I didn't exactly have the time or resources to sue for defamation, if that's the legal terminology for someone who slags you off in public.

‘That's bullshit and you know it. The Mimosa is going down the pan faster than Dynorod could. You've lost your customers and you've lost Kenny and suddenly you're employing a goon on a free transfer from Masters of the Universe. What's the crack, eh?'

‘Nevil doesn't work for me,' he snapped, truly indignant.

‘So what's he doing at the club, then?'

‘He has –' Stubbly began to look shifty; that didn't help; he always did look shifty – ‘business interests in the club, that's all. Keep away from him, Angel, and keep away from the Mimosa. It's only for a week or so …'

He stopped himself. He'd said too much – and I hadn't even begun to cotton on.

‘What's happening next week, then, Bill? Come on, I'm a big boy now, I can hack it.'

Bill made a determined effort to push me aside, and I had to let him. Over his shoulder, I'd seen a pair of beat coppers walking by. The last thing I needed was being branded a mugger.

‘Just disappear, will yer,' Stubbly was saying. ‘Go away and stay away from me.'

Then, over his shoulder, he added: ‘And stay away from the club. And that bloody woman. She's trouble, I tell you.'

Women – trouble? Gee, if only I'd known that earlier in life.

 

As it was, I almost missed them.

I'd parked Armstrong around the side of Sedgeley House in one of the diagonal streets that run off to the Edgware Road. It was a quiet little street with the obligatory Charrington's pub at the end, one that, like most of the pubs around there, had a Gents down a near-vertical flight of stairs. A damned dangerous architectural feature if you ask me, which added weight to my theory that the pub must have been designed by a feminist with a grudge.

I was munching a meat pie and reading an early edition of the
Standard
when I saw them, and then only because I happened to glance in the mirror.

Nevil was leading Jo by the arm towards a white Ford Sierra. There was no mistaking his bulk, but I could have been fooled by Jo if I hadn't known her. She was doing a reasonable Madonna impression: black leather mini-skirt, black fishnets and ankle socks, black-and-silver high heels. To top things off, she wore the sort of sunglasses most people thought were old-fashioned in 1958 but now cost about 50 quid a go, and nearly a furlong of white chiffon wrapped around her head, snood-like.

They must have come out of a back entrance to the flats, and they were intent on avoiding somebody, although I'd seen nothing suspicious when I'd cruised down Seymour Place. But then that funny copper, Malpass, had known I'd been out front on Sunday. How?

I didn't worry about it; I had some driving to do. Despite the virtual anonymity of the FX4 cab anywhere in London, I kept a safe distance behind the Sierra as Nevil headed south and then east, crossing the river in Chelsea, then turning east again, running behind Battersea power station.

The cabs were thinner on the ground now, so I kept a couple of cars between us. Once past the Oval, they got even scarcer, and following became more difficult, basically because I didn't know where I was. I'd never really explored the bandit country north of Peckham; but at least there were plenty of vehicles around to cover me. In fact, every second one seemed to be a jobbing builder's pick-up, either a Mazda or a Toyota, loaded with bits of scaffolding and bags of sand. I knew the type: five years of self-employed brickying, then sell up and buy into a pub near Clacton or Southend and spend the summer serving light-and-bitter to self-employed brickies on a day out with the kids from Peckham or Deptford. So forth, so fifth.

At one point, I almost lost them, until I realised that the Sierra had pulled into a garage for gas. I stopped a hundred yards down the road and checked my bearings in the paperback
A-Z
I keep taped behind the sun visor. It didn't help. I still had no idea where we were going, but I kept the
A-Z
up against my face as the Sierra overtook me.