Keeping Bad Company (10 page)

He leaned across the table and entreated. ‘Please say you’ll do it. The girl who was lined up has her leg pinned together and had to cry off. I know it’ll work perfectly.’

Of course I’d do it. I was a would-be actress being offered a role, albeit static, before a live audience. If we struck really lucky, the local press would print a pic, which meant I’d get my face – and my name – in the paper along with Angus.

‘All right,’ I said.

Relief glowed in his blue eyes. ‘Thirty quid, OK? It’s all I can afford and it’s a fair rate.’

A paid
live performance. ‘It’s a deal,’ I told him.

‘Fine, then. See you Saturday at the hall, eight thirty, right? Gives us time to get everything fixed up before the public’s let in at ten thirty. Exhibition closes four thirty.’

Six hours’ legitimate work. It couldn’t be bad. At the same time, I privately resolved not to tell Ganesh anything more about it, not unless he actually asked outright. He’d be much happier not knowing.

My mind straying from art, I hoped Ganesh wouldn’t drop out of our planned expedition that evening in further search of Albie.

‘You look a bit worried,’ said Angus solicitously. ‘It will be all right.’

That’s what they always say.

Chapter Five

I walked over to the shop that evening to meet Ganesh, as agreed, outside at eight thirty. A light rain spotted my face and I hoped it stayed at that and we weren’t in for a downpour. I’d pulled on my black leather jacket as a precaution.

The shop was closed and in darkness. I pressed my nose to the glass all the same, because sometimes someone’s in there stacking shelves or doing odd jobs, but it was empty. I moved to the street door alongside, which gives independent access to the upstairs flat and was about to press the bell when without any warning it was jerked open from inside. Ganesh appeared, bolted out, yelling a farewell up the staircase, and slammed the door shut behind him.

I was relieved to see him. After my brief conversation with Hari earlier, I’d more than half expected the problem with the wholesaler to have led to lengthy arguments after work and midnight studying of the accounts. It had happened before that Hari had found some last-minute problem to delay Ganesh and I’d been left hanging about out here in the street, exchanging banter with passing local sex maniacs.

I opened my mouth to ask him how the visit to the wholesaler had gone, but a glance at his expression told me this wouldn’t be a good idea. So I just said. ‘Hi. All ready to go?’

‘Where first?’ he asked, zipping up his jacket to the chin and glancing nervously up at the first-floor bay window in case it was flung open and Hari put his head out to call him back. ‘Let’s go,’ he added before I could answer.

I was happy to move off. A stiff breeze now gusted unimpeded down the street, bowling rubbish and increasingly heavy rain squalls ahead of it and moving had to be better than standing around. It wasn’t so late in the year, only September, and it really oughtn’t to have turned so cold yet. Another thing affecting our expedition was the shortening of the daylight hours. It was already beginning to get dark. Gan thrust his hands into the pouch pockets of his blouson and we set off in the general direction of The Rose.

‘Just to check it out,’ I said. ‘See if Merv’s there. If he is involved then I’d like to know where he is.’

‘He’s going to get suspicious if we start hanging around, Fran,’ Ganesh mumbled, chin down inside his upturned jacket collar.

‘It’s a pub! People hang round pubs. Anyhow, I don’t think he’s that observant. He wouldn’t remember me. I’m just some woman he shoved back against the bar.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone in there,’ Gan picked up the vengeful note in my voice. ‘What did you expect? By the way, did you go round to – ’

He was going to ask about Jimmie’s artist friend and I didn’t want to explain all that, not just now.

I broke in with, ‘By the way, I’ve had a visit from the Monster from the Black Lagoon. Sergeant Parry dropped round to see me.’

Ganesh stopped and turned to me, incredulous. ‘What did he want?’

I told him about Parry’s visit. Ganesh thought about it, lips pressed tightly together. ‘Well, you could be right. Something brought him running over to your place to warn you off.’ He paused. ‘It
would
be him, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It would.’

We went on our way in a thoughtful silence. I reflected that Parry had, in a way, done me a good turn because Ganesh had temporarily forgotten my modelling job. Only temporarily. He’d remember.

Despite it being a fairly early hour, the homeless had already staked out their pitches if they were begging, or bedded themselves down for the night beneath whatever sleeping equipment they possessed. We stopped and made brief enquiries of anyone we came across on our way to The Rose. We were greeted either with colourful abuse or the request ‘Got any change?’ Asked about Albie, they replied, ‘Who’s he?’ or ‘Never heard of ’im.’ It wasn’t a good start.

We also drew a blank at the pub, much to Gan’s obvious relief – no beat-up old wreck parked outside and no Merv inside.

The patrons’ musical ears were being given a rest tonight in the absence of a live band. But their tolerance was being tested in another way by a stand-up comedian. He was young, very nervous, and dying on his feet up there on the tiny stage. He’d misjudged his audience and prepared all the wrong material, trying for the witty and satirical when what they wanted was blue jokes, the more politically incorrect the better. At the moment the drinkers were in a fairly good mood and ignoring him. Later, when their tolerance wore thin, they’d start barracking him. The landlord was casting the performer uneasy glances. I could see that at any minute the perspiring jester would be requested to cut short the act, such as it was, and go while the going was good. I wondered if he’d get paid and doubted it. I was sorry for him because he was probably a struggling wannabee, like me, trying to get himself an Equity card.

‘Come on,’ said Ganesh, rightly judging the mood. ‘Before they start throwing things.’

We set off again, seeking information in earnest. I fully realised it wasn’t polite, to say the least, to disturb someone who had cocooned himself in a sleeping bag or gone to earth under a pile of old clothes or newspapers, but I quickly discovered it was also hazardous. Shaking a sleeper’s shoulder usually resulted in a fist punching out of the huddled shape. We’d also forgotten that the homeless often keep a dog for protection. A close encounter with a large and very unfriendly Dobermann reminded us. The animal chose to go for Gan and not for me, rather to my relief though not to his. Gan escaped with minor damage to his jeans but became especially sensitive to a canine presence after that. He’d exclaim, ‘Dog!’ as soon as we got anywhere near, long before I spotted the mutt in question.

It was best, in fact, to stand well away from the doorway or alley and call out my request. Sadly, but understandably, street dwellers don’t like being asked for information, especially about one another. My polite questions about Albie’s whereabouts got me nowhere. ‘Never heard of him!’ was still the usual reply, followed by, ‘Bugger off!’ or some variant of same. Frequently we were spat at, and on one occasion the occupant of a doorway shied an empty lager can at us. It missed me by a hair’s breadth, hit the pavement with a clang, and rolled noisily away into the gutter.

‘Could’ve been worse,’ I said, determined to look on the bright side. Ganesh hadn’t been enthusiastic to begin with and noticeably less so since the dog episode. It was up to me to keep the momentum going. ‘Could’ve been a bottle.’

‘Could’ve been a knife,’ said Ganesh, who prefers to look on the downside, and had begun to hang back, happy to let me go first as we approached each new doorway. ‘Or hadn’t you thought of that?’

I hadn’t, but I did from now on.

I approached the next likely place with more caution. It was a narrow passage, floored with black and white chequerboard tiles, and running back towards some kind of business entry. It was pitch-dark in there, despite the streetlighting, which had now come on and buzzed fitfully behind me, casting a murky yellow glow on the wet pavement. There was something at the far end of the entry because I could hear movement. Paper rustled.

‘Hullo?’ I called. ‘Is someone there? I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m looking for someone . . .’

There was no reply. The rustling stopped and then recommenced in a flurry. There was a scattering noise across the glazed tiles that made the hair on my neck bristle. A car drove past and its headlights cast a sudden ray of brighter light into the doorway. I had a brief sighting of a shape, raised on hind legs, nose snuffling the air in my direction. Evil little eyes gleamed in the reflected glare of the headlights.

I leaped back with a strangled squeak of horror and cannoned into Ganesh, who yelped and exclaimed. ‘What is it?’

‘Rat. . .’ I whispered, gripping his arm.

I had to admit that was something else I hadn’t thought about. There was another reason for sharing your sleeping place with a dog if you were out on the streets. Rats don’t like dogs.

I don’t like rats. I’d face any street-dweller, with or without dog, bottle or knife, and in any state of mind or out of it, sooner than face a rat.

‘We’ll give this doorway a miss,’ I said.

After that I was more rat-conscious than Ganesh was of slavering hounds. I saw rodents more than once. A pair of them scurried round a plastic rubbish sack in which they’d gnawed a hole. Worst of all, I spotted a real monster crouched on a windowsill, his scaly tail hanging down by the brickwork. That did it. From now on, no matter how hot it got, I’d keep all the windows of my flat closed!

All this time we were getting nearer and nearer to St Agatha’s church where I knew, from his own account, Albie was occasionally to be found at night in the porch. So although it had begun to rain steadily and promised to be an unpleasant night, I wasn’t yet ready to give up.

Ganesh felt differently. ‘I’m getting fed up with this,’ he said. ‘And I’m hungry.’ Rain had plastered his long black hair to his face and he was examining the rip made in the leg of his jeans by the Dobermann.

But I had high hopes of finding Albie at St Agatha’s. Enquiries on the way there had only been on the off chance and I hadn’t really expected anyone to tell me anything.

‘We must check out the porch,’ I said. ‘This is the last. Then we’ll find a place to eat, promise.’

‘All right,’ he muttered.

I suggested kindly that if he preferred, he could go home. He pointed out that for him this meant returning to Hari’s flat above the shop. Seeing as he’d put up with Hari since returning from the wholesalers, he could do with a break, thanks very much. Even if it was only traipsing round the streets with me, risking life and limb disturbing the disturbed.

‘You’ll see, at the very least we’ll pick up fleas!’ he concluded.

I’m often grateful to Ganesh for being there, but there are occasions when I wonder if his kind of support is what I really need.

St Agatha’s is in a quiet residential area – quiet at night, at least. It wasn’t too well lit around there. The mock-Gothic building reared up against the sky like a part of the set in that old film I’d been watching the previous night, all pinnacles and arched tracery, half veiled in shadows. The line of sight was further impeded by trees planted along the frontage. One of the nearby streetlamps had gone out. Iron railings divided the property from the pavement. There was a gate, now secured with chain and padlock.

‘That’s that, then,’ said Ganesh with relief, rattling the gate and turning away.

‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘If you’re sleeping rough, you look for somewhere secure. There must be a way in.’

There was, just a short distance down, and disguised by a rampant buddleia bush. The railings had been damaged and two of them removed. We squeezed through and approached the porch, which extended some eight feet out from the building and was doorless. I turned round when we got there to survey the road and work out just what had been in Albie’s range of vision when he saw the snatch. Actually, not a great deal, due to the trees. A moment’s doubt struck me. Had it all been, after all, an alcoholic nightmare?

Ganesh whispered, ‘There’s someone in the porch . . .’

I’d realised that as soon as I’d poked my head through the arched entry. A sour stew of unwashed human body, filthy rags, booze dregs and nicotine combined in a stench fit to make you gag. Albie hadn’t smelled that bad. But I hadn’t seen Albie since Marylebone Station and had no idea what he’d been doing meantime. For all I knew, he’d spent the time in a massive drinking session.