Just Another Angel (14 page)

Oh no.

I went to the sink and turned the cold tap on for a long drink to combat the dehydration. With my head turned sideways, I could see out of the window and through the house to Willesden Sports Centre, where a Sunday league football team was working out. Just watching them made me feel ill.

‘Do you wanna get out of here?' I asked, straightening up gently.

‘Might as well, there's nothing to eat.'

‘They must be on the F-Plan diet.'

‘What's that?'

‘You get fuck-all to eat.'

Bunny curled a lip. ‘Oh, very quick. Not funny, but very quick. Come on, the pubs'll be open in five minutes.'

Oh, you bastard, Bunny.

Funnily enough, I felt better after a couple of pints at a pub in Maida Vale; you know, the trendy one among
Guardian
readers that has the really stupid long name and brews its own beer in the cellar. Not that the hair of the dog remedy actually works; it just makes you forget how bad you feel for a while.

I lunched on a cheese roll and a packet of crisps while Bunny – no day is wasted – chatted up the sulking wife or girlfriend of one of the lunchtime real ale bores who was drinking his way round the hand-pumps with a group of mates. At one point, I saw Bunny write something, probably her phone number, on a drip mat and slip it into the back pocket of his jeans. Like a flash, I thought to check my pockets.

All my cash was accounted for and Jo's ten crispy twenties were in place. My, but they're honest in Willesden, and the rent would get paid in Hackney.

I got Bunny out of the pub just before chucking-out time, and with a bit of persuasion he agreed to take me as far as Hackney, dropping me off at the end of Stuart Street. The first thing I noticed was that the Transit had gone and Armstrong was back in his place of honour outside No 9.

I did a quick walk-round check. Yes, there were still four wheels (well, you never know these days) and, just as I'd thought, the interior was littered with sodding confetti. I patted Armstrong's stubbly radiator and promised him a good clean-out. A pensioner walking his dog on the other side of the street quickened his pace, obviously not wanting to be there when the men in white coats came for me. Silly old buffer. I'll bet he talks to his dog.

Which made me think of Springsteen and the fact that he hadn't been fed for nearly 24 hours. He'd have my leg off.

But wonders (Rule of Life No 3) never cease. Outside my flat, sitting on the stairs, legs curled and making soft purring noises, was Fenella.

Next to her, his face stuck into a plate of what looked like raw mince, was Springsteen. I could see from the four small puncture marks on Fenella's wrist that she had tried to stroke him during lunch. Silly girl. He's an ungrateful bastard at the best of times, but biting the hand that feeds you
while
it's feeding you is a bit out of order.

‘Hello, Fenella,' I said, because she wouldn't have spoken if I hadn't. ‘Has he conned you as well?' She smiled a really nice smile. ‘Don't tell me, let me guess: the scratching at the door, the piteous crying, the sucked-in, ever-so-thin ribs …'

She nodded and sighed.

‘Yeah. Taught him everything I know.'

That brought a spot of colour to her cheeks when she'd worked it out.

‘I couldn't stand it any more – hearing him howl, I mean. But it was Lisabeth who got the mince for him. I had to feed him, though; she's not a cat person.'

‘Hey, there's nothing nasty in there, is there? I mean, you're not missing a light bulb or anything, are you?'

‘Don't be awful, Angel, she's just trying to butter you up.'

‘Coming from anyone else, Fenella, that would be rude, but I know you're a well-brought-up young …' The penny dropped. ‘Your parents are coming, aren't they, and she wants to move in with me.'

‘And you'd forgotten. She said you would.'

Fenella can be really prissy sometimes.

‘When are you expecting them?'

‘Tonight, about 6.00. I'm cooking vegetable curry for them.'

I was sure they could hardly wait; but then to be fair to Fenella, she was the only woman under 50 I knew in London who made her own damson jam. Most women in London work on the theory that if you can't microwave it, only the ethnic minorities can cook it.

‘And when does Lisabeth want to move into the annexe? Not that I mean to make her sound like some latter-day Anne Frank, of course.'

‘She's more or less packed.'

Springsteen finished the mince and inspected his whiskers for any he'd missed. Fenella retrieved her plate, keeping an eye out for the fastest claw in the East End.

‘Well, send her up,' I said, putting my key in the flat door. Springsteen shot between my legs through the catflap without another look at Fenella. Typical male: eats and runs.

‘I'd better give her a hand or she'll sulk. You wouldn't have thought she had so much stuff.' Fenella started down the stairs. ‘Who was Anne Frank, Angel?'

‘Before your time, luv. And don't ask Lisabeth.'

She might know.

 

By the time the aged parents had arrived, Lisabeth was ensconced in my bedroom, the sleeping-bag (which has seen me through three continents, two sit-ins, an eviction and a New Year's Eve in Trafalgar Square, and which I called Hemingway) in place on the sofa. Springsteen tested it for comfort, then hid under the low coffee table, partly because it's the only table I have and partly because it's the ideal place to ambush somebody coming out of the bedroom with no shoes on.

I went downstairs to help the Binkworthys in with their bags, and also to get a look at them as I was mildly curious, not to mention nosey.

Mr Binkworthy was a tall, dapperly-dressed bloke who had parked his redundancy-money Ford Sierra behind Armstrong. He looked at it suspiciously, and almost as if contemplating a sly kick at one of the wheels, as he unloaded the food parcels the diminutive and cheery Mrs Binkworthy thought Fenella needed. I said it was mine.

‘So you're a musher, are you?' he said, showing off.

‘Sort of. Yes, I own my own cab, but the real mushers would have me if I took a fare.'

He let me take a box of groceries (Sainsbury's of course) while he unloaded a couple of suitcases from the boot. I told him to lock the car.

‘But we're coming back. There's more stuff on the back seat.'

‘Lock it or lose it.' He took my advice, and I could see him thinking that maybe this wasn't the best sort of area for his only daughter.

‘Don't worry,' I soothed. ‘It's mostly kids after cassettes or petty cash in the glove compartment.'

He didn't seem convinced, so I didn't tell him that I wouldn't give odds on his wheels being there in the morning.

‘So you're a neighbour of Fenella's?' he huffed as he strained up the stairs.

‘Yup, next flat up. I've been here for nearly a year now.'

He paused outside Fenella's open door. From inside, there came the clink of crockery and Mrs Binkworthy's high-pitched voice feigning joviality.

‘I was very worried when Fenella came to live in London, I don't mind telling you,' he confided; so, as a totally unconcerned complete stranger, I tut-tutted sympathetically. ‘She's very young for her age, you know.' Well, so was I. ‘And her mother and I have always worried about her.'

My God, they suspected!

‘She's been so sheltered from men, you know. All her life. Convent school, then secretarial college. We felt sure she'd be preyed on when she came to the big city.' He smiled thinly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still, she appears to be looking after herself. Tell me honestly – you seem to be a friend – does she have any trouble with boyfriends?'

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, Mr Binkworthy, I can truthfully put your mind at ease on that score.'

The things I do for people.

 

Which reminded me, I had some credit cards to return. I wasn't put off by the fact that Jo had told me not to call or see her. She'd obviously been confused and had things on her mind. Anyway, she owed me 50 quid.

And as there was a serious possibility of being invited in for tea and vegetable curry, I thought it wise to make myself scarce. It wasn't that I minded Fenella, and I could have had fun doing a wind-up on her parents. No, the reason I dare not go would be the prospect of facing Lisabeth's jealousy for the rest of the week. As it was, she pumped me about every move the Binkworthys had made since their arrival, before settling down with a mug of Bovril and a packet of salt ‘n' vinegar to watch American football on the box. I hadn't realised she was a fan, but it explained how she walked the way she did.

While she was deciding whether to support the Denver Broncos or the Pittsburgh Pederasts (whatever), I sneaked into the bedroom and nearly had a heart attack to find a three-foot Paddington Bear propped up on the pillow. How had she got that in without me seeing? But I wasn't going to ask.

I took down from the bookshelf above the bed a hardback edition of Hugh Brogan's
History of the United States.
I usually keep it between the Tolkiens and the McDonalds (John or Philip, not Ross). It's actually quite a good book, and I'd had a few qualms about turning it over to Lenny the Lathe, who specialises in converting books more than an inch thick into fireproof, combination-lock safes. But he'd owed me a favour for a little job I'd done him and I'd needed somewhere to stash my passport, emergency cash and one or two other goodies. After all, there are 11 million people in the Naked City and only some of them are honest.

I removed Jo's credit cards from the book-safe and returned it carefully, just in case Lisabeth got nosey. I had few worries that she would suddenly take an interest in American history, but she might notice something out of place, and the combination lock looked much more sophisticated than it actually was.

Before leaving, I gave a spare key to Lisabeth and an envelope with Jo's two hundred quid for her to give to Mr Nassim. (Being a Muslim, he didn't mind collecting rent on a Sunday.)

‘Oh God, is it rent day again?' Lisabeth moaned. ‘Okay, I'll see the thief of Baghdad for you. In fact, it might be better if I head him off before he gets to our place. The Binkworthys will have a fit if they see old Gunga Din Rachman. Are you going to be late?'

I paused mid-way through zipping up my black, waterproof blouson, which advertised (discreetly) Coors Lite. Lousy beer, but a good jacket with more than a few memories of a young lady from Boulder, Colorado, attached to it.

‘Shouldn't think so. Why?'

‘I was going to have an early night, but I won't bother if you're going to come in pissed and play your Little Feat LPs around midnight.'

‘Don't worry, fair maiden, I shall return before the witching hour,' I said, edging towards the door. ‘Oh, and don't worry about the snoring.'

‘Snoring?'

‘Yes. I've got earplugs, so don't worry about it.'

I was out of the flat before she could turn her head, and as I passed Springsteen on the stairs, I said: ‘You're on your own, kid.'

 

Armstrong zipped through the City with more than usual aplomb, which made me think that Duncan the Drunken had given him a tuning. He could never see an engine without laying a spanner on it. Not that there was much traffic about on a Sunday evening, and I was able to park right outside Sedgeley House.

The street door was locked, so I pressed the button numbered 11 on the squawk box built into the porch. There was no name tag in the oblong strip next to the button, but that wasn't unusual. The only people left in London who put their name on their doorbells these days were called Monica or Helga, and there was rarely a surname.

There was no answer. I could have saved some diesel and phoned. Then the old porter I'd seen on my first visit shambled across the hallway, teapot with no lid in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other.

I tapped on the armour-plated glass, but he couldn't or wouldn't hear me, so I pressed the button marked ‘Reception' and the old buffer jumped vertically like a Harrier with wind.

He came to the door carefully, mouthing ‘Whaddya-want?' I couldn't blame him; only a few days before, an eminent surgeon had been badly mugged in the entrance to his Harley Street office in the middle of the afternoon. Not only were the streets no longer safe, the lobbies were becoming risky too.

The old man put a deadlock on the door before opening it.

‘Flat 11,' I said. ‘The bell doesn't seem to be working.'

‘Bell's working, but there ain't nobody in, and I don't know when anybody'll be back. Is there a message?'

‘No …' Over his shoulder, I could see the light above the lift doors flick on No 4. Top floor. Flat 11? ‘Er … Has Mrs Scamp gone out?'

‘Yes, this afternoon. Any message?'